Beyond Appledore
by Copgirl
Summary: What happened after Sherlock got arrested upon killing Magnussen? The story begins with Sherlock's arrest,ventures into the events when his game is on again and explains why Moriarty suddenly shows up. Also explores the turn in Sherlock & John's relationship. M for Ch 8. Relationship Greg and Mycroft follow events of my Story "Five Times" up to Mystrade in the last chapter.
1. Chapter 1 - 25th December

My heartfelt thanks go to Mapleleafcameo for betaing this story. Wouldn't have been possible without her! And here's the usual disclaimer, that I don't own any of the characters but still do as I please. ;-)

If somebody wonders about the relationship between Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade - the foundation was lain in the Story "Five Times Greg Lestrade saved Myroft Holmes Life".

Comments would be lovely.

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><p>"Where are they taking him?" John Watson's voice was anything but steady and he felt a tremor running across his shoulders. Mycroft Holmes' eyes appeared almost black. His gaze was following John's, settling on his brother who was just being searched by two men from Mycroft's unit.<p>

"Military prison," he told John in a clipped tone of voice.

"Can I visit him? He needs clothing and other things from home."

"I will get those for him," Mycroft replied. Indicating the helicopter he had arrived in, he asked, "Do you want a lift back to London?"

John was about to shake his head but thought better of it. How was he supposed to get back from Appledore unless transportation was provided by the British government? He nodded meekly.

The moment Mycroft and John had climbed in and fastened their seat-belts, the pilot powered up the engine and two minutes later they were airborne.

John's head buzzed and question upon question came up. Would Sherlock have to face trial for murder? Was there anything John could do to help? Would Mycroft be able to get Sherlock out of this mess? He didn't want to ask Mycroft any one of them. Not while the pilot would be listening. Maybe later, when they had landed. However, John felt that most likely this wouldn't be the case. The politician had always appeared stiff and upright, but John had never seen him like this, as if he carried a great weight.

The helicopter had barely touched the ground when Mycroft got out. "You will be taken to my parents' house to pick up your belongings and your wife," he told John. Mycroft began to march away but stopped after a few meters. He turned around, and looked at the defeated form of his brother's best friend. "You need to come in for questioning tomorrow." His voice softened audibly when he added, "I'll be in touch to keep you informed about Sherlock."

John nodded that he understood and Mycroft walked away for good.

Against all expectations, John was actually looking forward to seeing Mary. When the limousine dropped him at the Holmes' cottage, Mrs Holmes was already waiting at the door, her eyes wide with worry. Apparently Bill Wiggins had left the house once he had noticed Mycroft coming round. He hadn't felt the urge to face the politician's wrath for drugging him. John followed Mrs Holmes inside and into the kitchen. He almost got knocked to the ground by his very pregnant wife who flew into his arms before she drew him into a desperate hug. John returned the hug and burying his face in Mary's neck, he felt his throat constrict.

Mrs Holmes was almost ready to burst, radiating a mixture of apprehension and curiosity but she made tea first and allowed John to sit down at the kitchen table. John downed the first cup and held it up for a refill, before he was able to talk. He told Sherlock's parents and Mary as much as he dared to tell. He left out quite a bit but now they knew that Sherlock was in prison for killing Magnussen and that Mycroft was doing his utmost to help his brother. At least John hoped he was.

When John was done talking, an uncomfortable silence settled in the kitchen. Mary cleared her throat. "I'd like to go home, John."

Both John and the Holmes parents nodded. A cab was called and half an hour later they were back in London's suburbs.

oOo

John felt odd coming back to the house Mary and he lived in until four months ago. When John had learned that she had shot Sherlock, he hadn't been able to go back. He had collected his stuff and moved back to Baker Street right away. The flat he had shared with Sherlock for so long had immediately felt like home again. Although at that time Sherlock had been committed to hospital after his gunshot wound had begun bleeding again. The flat in 221B had felt like an old friend, fit like his favorite jumper and smelled like his favorite meal cooked by his mother. For lack of sheets, he had slept in Sherlock's bed the first night and to his own surprise, John had slept like a baby. In the morning he had acknowledged that he felt quite odd. Odd because for some reason it had felt so very right sleeping in his friend's bed.

He had shared the bed with the detective only once before, when the window in his own room had been broken on a bitterly cold night. After having returned from a case they had been too tired to do anything about it but had climbed between the sheets of Sherlock's bed together and had fallen asleep right away.

The morning after Sherlock had been admitted to hospital John had taken a shower, paid Sherlock a visit and then he went back to the flat to clean the place from top to bottom. If there hadn't been the gnawing pain of Mary's betrayal and the overall looming question of what he was supposed to do, it would have been perfect. He had been back home at last. And that feeling had deepened considerably when Sherlock had been released from hospital and was back as well.

They had reverted to their old habits like nothing had ever happened, as if Sherlock hadn't been absent for two years and John hadn't been utterly heartbroken by the suicide Sherlock hadn't committed after all.

Now he was back with Mary in their house. Presently it was only a house, and John didn't know if would become his home again.

Being absolutely knackered John undressed, took a shower, brushed his teeth and went to bed. Mary went to bed too but they didn't cuddle. Both of them fell asleep right away.

oOo

Mycroft Holmes had never liked Christmas but this year it had exceeded all expectations in the worst possible way. When he left his office around 11pm, he felt emotionally drained. Sherlock had screwed up royally this time. Even if Mycroft called in every single favour somebody owed him, he doubted he could prevent Sherlock from being incarcerated. It was either that or being sent to Eastern Europe after all.

Sitting in his car, he thought about going home. He had always felt secure in his solitude but tonight he rather craved company. His fingers had already typed a short text to Gregory before he had finished this string of thought.

_Are you awake? MH _

The answer came less than half a minute later.

_Yes, what's up? GL_

_Mind if I came over? MH_

_Of course not. GL_

_20 minutes. MH_

_:-) GL_

Mycroft rang the bell exactly 18 minutes later and Greg buzzed him up immediately. When he stepped into the Inspector's small flat, Mycroft already felt part of the weight that had been sitting on his shoulders lift. Greg's '_Happy Christmas_' died on the man's lips though.

"Jeez, Myc, you look like hell. What happened?"

Mycroft was ushered inside and once Greg had hung up his coat and propped up his umbrella in the stand he had purchased just for this very umbrella, they went into the living room. That is, Greg stepped into the room. Mycroft, still distracted, stopped right in the doorway and underneath a sprig of mistletoe Greg's daughter had decided to hang up there.

Greg couldn't prevent a grin spreading all over his face. He walked back slowly towards Mycroft.

"Are you standing there on purpose?" He asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

Greg pointed at the mistletoe and Mycroft jumped forward, when he spotted the twig, a peculiar expression on his face.

A few months ago Greg wouldn't have dared making fun of him like this but bit-by-bit Mycroft had begun to relax around him, had learned that he could trust the Inspector and had found a real friend. Only last week Mycroft had for the first time discarded his tie and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves to help Greg wash up the dishes after they had eaten dinner together.

"Wow," Greg had shouted. "You're literally naked, Myc. Next time give a guy a warning."

His words plus the following laughter had earned him a wet cloth thrown at his face. Plus a chuckle people around the government official got to hear only on very rare occasion.

"Come on, Mycroft. Relax. If I'd any intentions of snogging you, you'd get no warning. Greg winked and clapped him on the shoulder. "What would you like? I got wine, beer and a very nice apple punch. The punch is without non-alcoholic. Tastes really great with or without a shot of Calvados."

They both settled for the alcoholic version of the punch. Once it was heated up they got settled.

"Want to tell me what's bothering you?" Greg eventually asked.

Mycroft took a sip of his punch. "This is good," he told Greg. Rubbing his forehead he looked at the Inspector over the rim of his cup. "Sherlock killed a man. I had to have him arrested by MI6."

Greg's eyes went wide. "Oh god, can you tell me any details? Who and why?"

"Who, is Charles Augustus Magnussen, why, because he did something to John Watson."

"Shit!" Greg brought it to the point. "Where's Sherlock now?"

"Military prison. And before you ask, you can't do anything to help him." Mycroft's face softened when he added, "But you're helping me by listening, Gregory."

"You're always welcome, Mycroft."

They sat in silence while drinking their punch. When Greg had downed the last bit he left the room to return moments later with an envelope that was adorned with a red bow.

"Happy Christmas, Mycroft." Greg handed him the envelope.

Taking it, Mycroft looked at him in surprise. "You've got me a present?" Greg grinned. It really must have been unexpected, for Mycroft was not a man who stated the obvious.

"Well, friends do sometimes give each other a present for Christmas." He considered what he just said and added quickly, "I know we haven't talked about exchanging presents, so I don't expect anything in return but when I saw this", he indicated the envelope, "it more or less had your name written all over it."

Mycroft put the envelope on the table without opening it, got up, went to his coat and came back with an envelope of his own. He handed it over to Greg.

"Actually I have heard about the custom of exchanging presents at Christmas. So, Happy Christmas to you too, Gregory."

"You first." Greg suddenly felt quite self-conscious about his purchase.

Mycroft opened the envelope and found two tickets for a concert of Ragna Schirmer, a young concert pianist from Germany.

"I think you'll like her music but I can change the tickets for something else if you don't."

"No, I love her music, especially the suits from Handel and Bach. I didn't even know she was coming here for a concert." Mycroft regarded the tickets. "But I'm not sure who to take along. Unless you'd like to go."

"The concert is in Edinburgh but I had hoped you would ask." Greg gave him a somewhat shy smile. "I've never been to anything like that, but I'd like to give it a go."

"I'd like that very much." Mycroft nodded and smiled at his friend. "Thank you very much, Gregory. That is the most thoughtful present I've had in a very long time." He gave Greg's hand an affectionate squeeze. "But now..." He indicated Greg's envelope.

Greg opened it and found two season tickets for his favorite football club, Arsenal. Being a lot less reserved when it came to showing his affection, he jumped up and engulfed Mycroft into a hug, almost toppling them both off the sofa.

"Thanks, Myc. You're the best." Greg swallowed, releasing his friend who had blushed to a ferocious scarlet. "Care for a malt, before we call it a night?"


	2. Chapter 2 - 26th December

Thank you so much for the first reviews. They are really appreciated.

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><p>John woke up shortly after 2am. After a trip to the bathroom he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again soon. John climbed back into his bed anyway. Closing his eyes he reviewed the images of Christmas Day – the weirdest Christmas Day possible as far as John was concerned. Spending it with the Holmes family was weird enough. Under normal circumstances, if such a thing as normal ever happened since Sherlock had flounced into John's life, Sherlock and he would have had a great time laughing about Mycroft who enjoyed Christmas so very little and had kept complaining all day long. Instead, Sherlock had brought along Bill Wiggins, which had ignited a feeling inside John's chest he wasn't ready to scrutinize as closely as it deserved. It had felt almost as strange as the moment when he had seen Janine coming out of Sherlock's bedroom, following him into the bathroom or when she had kissed the detective.<p>

John couldn't be jealous, could he? He remembered Irene Adler had asked him if he was jealous, after he had accused her of flirting with Sherlock. Damn it! He was jealous Sherlock had brought Bill Wiggins to his parent's house for Christmas.

He had moved on, had married, although Sherlock was back. He remembered Mrs Hudson saying 'Oh, so soon after Sherlock!' It had been two bloody years! That didn't qualify as soon, did it? John felt himself getting agitated, thinking about Sherlock. He checked if Mary was still asleep and got up.

Slipping on his dressing gown, he went to the kitchen to make some tea. He saw a light blinking at his mobile. It was a text from Mycroft.

'_My office, 10am tomorrow, for your statement. MH_'

Nothing about Sherlock but he knew that answering the text at 2am wouldn't get him anywhere. Hopefully he would be all the wiser in a few hours.

Once John had sat down with his tea, he rubbed his eyes thinking about Sherlock's actions the day before. The day Sherlock became a murderer. His friend had prevented John from becoming just that. When Magnussen had begun flicking his face, John had felt an anger burn inside him that had ignited another, a different feeling. Hate. John couldn't remember hating someone. Hating anyone that fiercely. Even the enemies during the war in Afghanistan were mere opponents. But Magnussen he had hated.

Interesting enough Sherlock had hated Magnussen from the very beginning. As far as John knew, Sherlock never hated anyone. He looked down on people, people annoyed him or he considered them inferior but hatred was something he hadn't expected finding in Sherlock. It was such a strong emotion. Like love.

John blinked. Love he hadn't expected from Sherlock either but during his speech at the wedding reception Sherlock had declared his love for John. He felt his throat constrict and exhaustion kick in. He skulked back to his bed. "Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?" John whispered, before falling asleep, sounding as devastated as Mycroft had some hours ago.

oOo

Mycroft woke up from the sound of an alarm clock. His first reaction was to pull his pillow over his head to shut out the noise but seconds later he realized that neither the alarm clock he was hearing nor the bed he was lying in was his. The scent of the pillow and the cover gave away that it was Gregory's bed. 'What on earth...?' Looking at the alarm clock, Mycroft sat up in shock. It was 9am. He couldn't remember the last time he had overslept. John Watson would be in his office in an hour.

Getting out of the bed he discovered that he wore only his boxers and vest. For a moment he tried to remember anything of significance about last night but how he had ended up in Gregory's bed like this he couldn't figure out.

His cloths were neatly folded and in the bathroom he found a towel, a still packed toothbrush and a razor with a note attached that read his name.

Mycroft was ready to go fifteen minutes later. He discovered Gregory curled up on the sofa, covered with a blanket. Only a tuft of gray hair was visible on one end and a foot on the other. He walked to the door quietly, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man.

His coat was not on the rack but there was a note reading 'kitchen'.

In the kitchen he found not only his coat but discovered that the electric kettle had been timed and the water was just boiling. A take away cup equipped with a teabag sat beside the kettle. There was cream and Gregory had even made him a bacon sandwich. He could only shake his head in amazement.

While he let the tea brew, he wrote a quick thank you note for Gregory and eventually left.

Mycroft arrived at his office ten to ten and found John Watson already waiting. He took him to the room where his statement would be taken. The whole affair lasted five cups of tea (the equivalent of two hours). When John Watson eventually finished, both he and Mycroft were exhausted. Sherlock's actions clearly disturbed the elder Holmes more than he let on. The most information Mycroft had received was actually from all the things John hadn't said. The good doctor probably didn't realize it yet but Mycroft now knew that it had been Mary Watson who had shot his brother. Why Sherlock insisted on protecting her, the politician couldn't understand. When John Watson had moved back in with Sherlock, Mycroft had had his suspicions. Now that he knew for certain, he was seriously tempted to have Mary removed for good. Pregnant or not – he couldn't care less.

Looking up he noticed that John Watson had asked him a question – for the second time.

"I'm sorry?"

"I asked you, when I can go and see Sherlock."

"I'll arrange for you to see him at 1600 hours."

John nodded. He took the address Mycroft wrote down for him and left without a goodbye or thank you.

It made no difference for Mycroft. He went into his office, closed the door firmly and settled down to think.

oOo

John went to Baker Street to inform Mrs Hudson about recent events. The landlady already knew that Sherlock was in prison. She had learned from Mycroft who had come to the flat the day before to pick up some of Sherlock's personal belongings. John told her he would Sherlock visit in prison this afternoon and promised to call.

oOo

Sherlock was lying on the bunk in his cell. He was fully dressed but had taken off his shoes and socks. His eyes were closed, he had pressed the palms of his hands together under his chin and recalled the events that had lead to his incarceration.

Sherlock decided that shooting Magnussen had been the right thing to do. He knew he had never loathed a single person as much as that man. Even now, just thinking about Magnussen almost made him sick to his stomach. Maybe, but only maybe, he would have allowed him to live if he hadn't flicked John. That's when Sherlock had totally lost it. Every single flick to John's face had been a personal offense to Sherlock. He had felt each one of them as if Magnussen had slapped him. Sherlock hadn't been able to block the pain of those blows, had felt the impact like they had been delivered with an iron bar. Sherlock knew how much it hurt being beaten with one.

When Mycroft had arrived with his forces, he had known that this was the last chance. He would never get this close to Magnussen again. John's safety was imperative. And so he had pulled the gun from John's belt and shot Magnussen in the head.

He knew he'd be dead, shot by the troops, if it hadn't been for his brother's presence. For once he was grateful for Mycroft's interference. Not because he valued his own life so very much. Of course, he didn't want to die but he knew John wouldn't have been able to cope with Sherlock dying before his very own eyes a second time.

John had Mary to take care of him now and she would have to make do. Sherlock knew about the power Mycroft held within the government but even he wouldn't be able to get him off the hook this time. Maybe he would be able to soften the blow but that was about it.

Sherlock was all talons and fangs when he came face to face with his brother. To a large extend it was due to the fact that Mycroft still saw Sherlock being a consulting detective as nothing more than a game, a waste of his talents. Mycroft cared about him, he wanted his younger brother to be happy but on Mycroft's terms. If anyone had reason to call Mycroft Iceman it was Sherlock. Although even Sherlock had to admit that this infuriating brother of late had seemed to have softened up a bit. Perhaps hanging about with Lestrade gave Mycroft a different perspective.

Pushing the thoughts about his brother aside, Sherlock wondered what would happen if he was no longer around to protect his friend John Watson. A tiny voice in his head told him that John would already be a lot safer without Sherlock being around. However the doctor had proven already that he got bored without a certain level of danger. A smile crept onto Sherlock's face when he thought of his friend taking a tire lever and searching for a young drug addict, spraining Bill Wiggins' wrist in the process. Oh yes, spending time with Sherlock certainly had rubbed off on the good doctor.

Still, he was worried about John's safety. As long as Mary wanted John, he would be safe. But what would happen when she changed her mind? For Sherlock it was not so much a question of if but when. John's chances of survival would improve if he could get Mycroft to watch over him. Sherlock gritted his teeth. He could already imagine the satisfaction his brother would get out of Sherlock literally offering himself in exchange for John's safety. Not that he had to offer anything really at this point. It would prove Mycroft's whole concept of caring not being an advantage. Although, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again, maybe Mycroft wouldn't be so pretentious now that he had begun to care about Lestrade instead of dismissing the DI like one of his underlings. Maybe Mycroft had found himself a goldfish after all and indeed wasn't lonely any more. Sherlock produced a very annoyed huff and jumped up when he caught himself feeling better from thinking his brother having found a friend.

For a while Sherlock paced the length of his cell. He had just decided that the concrete floor was much too cold to walk on with bare feet when the door of his cell was flung open.

"You have a visitor!" A soldier called out and stepped aside to let John Watson enter the cell. The door had just been slammed shut when Sherlock found himself engulfed into a hug. John almost desperately clung to his friend and all Sherlock could do was return the gesture. John smelled warm and familiar, and they held each other quite a bit longer than was socially acceptable for two men who were just friends. Both of them felt a bit awkward when the doctor's hands, which had held on the detective's clothing for dear life, unclenched and Sherlock straightened up, so his nose was no longer buried in John's hair. They sat down on the bunk, facing each other. Sherlock pulled up his feet and leaned his back against the wall. Of course John would notice right away that Sherlock's feet were cold just from the way he curled his toes.

"They did allow you wearing your socks and shoes in here, didn't they?" John scolded, pulling one sorry excuse for an ice block against his stomach, taking the other foot in both hands to rub it warm. Sherlock made a happy sound.

"I would offer you a cup of tea but my resources in here are somewhat limited."

John's face took on a pained expression on Sherlock's attempt at humor. For a while the doctor looked down on his hands, contemplating his friend's cold foot rather than his face.

"You really did hate him, didn't you?" Although it sounded like a question, John didn't expect an answer. "Any idea what's going to happen to you?"

Sherlock shrugged and tried to sound indifferent. "Prison perhaps. But I think Mycroft will get me an assignment abroad."

"What kind of assignment?" John asked, not liking the sound of it.

"I don't know. He didn't elaborate." Sherlock answered truthfully, leaving out the details that he'd most likely be dead within six month.

John took Sherlock's other foot that had rested against his stomach so far, and began rubbing it. He observed the movements of his hands once again before he spoke up. "I moved back in with Mary."

Although Sherlock had already guessed as much, it hurt more than he had expected.

'Stupid!' He scolded himself. 'You are in prison and will either stay there or go abroad to die. What did you expect him to do? Stay in Baker Street and pine?'

He found John was watching him when he looked up again. They were silent, neither of them knowing what to say. Finally John put Sherlock's foot down and stood up. He began pacing in the cell, obviously trying to decide if he should speak about what occupied his thoughts. Making up his mind, John stopped and stood in front of Sherlock.

"You said at my wedding that you loved me most in all this world. Did you mean that? Do you love me?"

"Yes." In Sherlock's opinion the answer was superfluous. However it was important for John to hear and caused an immediate reaction.

"I love you, too," he told Sherlock, before he sat on the edge of the bunk. Angling his body towards Sherlock he cupped his face with in his hands and kissed him.

Sherlock froze when he felt John's lips on his own. The action itself was unexpected, to say the least. Not to mention the sensation was very different from what it had felt like when Janine had kissed him. It hadn't been unpleasant when she had but compared to what he felt right now... No, those kisses couldn't be compared at all. Sherlock decided he'd better do something to show John how wonderful it felt. He withdrew, tilted his head slightly and then he kissed him back. Through that kiss, he tried to tell John how deep his feelings were. Sherlock had known he had feelings for John but even he was surprised what and how much poured out of him. Just with the touch of his lips and tongue he tried to convey how long he loved him, why he had jumped down the roof of Bart's, what had saved Sherlock's life when the bullet in his chest had stopped his heart and how much he hurt because Mary had snatched John away from him. John somehow understood what Sherlock tried to communicate and it scared the living daylight out of him.

When they broke the kiss, John looked at his friend with wide eyes. He felt himself tremble violently and was unable to do anything about it. John managed to stumble to his feet.

"Sherlock, I... I gotta go. I'll come back tomorrow."

Sherlock silently watched John backing away towards the door and pressing the call-button for the guard. When the door was opened a few seconds later, John looked at him.

"I'm sorry," he said again and hurried out of the cell, ripping a huge chunk out of Sherlock's heart in the process.

oOo

When Greg woke up around noon, he decided that Christmas hadn't been half as bad as he had expected it to be. He had worked until nine in the evening and afterwards eaten a nice meal together with other Yarders on duty before going home. Then he had received Mycroft's text and the day had really improved.

He switched on the kettle to make tea before he walked into his bedroom. The duvet had been neatly folded – he wasn't surprised. They had had a nice evening but the shot of whiskey had knocked out Mycroft efficiently. The same had happened once before. Wine, beer, brandy – no problem. One glass of malt and the politician was out like a light.

Greg chuckled. When he had managed to get Mycroft out of his suit and tried to tuck him in, Mycroft had dragged Greg into bed with him. Greg had complied after a half-hearted struggle and only managed to untangle himself from Mycroft's long limbs after the man had fallen asleep. Greg had been reluctant to leave the bed but had decided Mycroft might be embarrassed if he woke up with Greg. While Mycroft had snuggled deeper into the pillow, Greg had folded his clothes and prepared everything for the next morning. He had even set the time on his electric kettle to boil the water for tea and fixed Mycroft a bacon sandwich before he had settled down on his sofa. His last thought had been that he wondered where their relationship was heading.

Greg poured the hot water into the mug and fetched bread from the fridge to make breakfast for himself.

oOo

Mycroft sat in his office drinking another cup of tea and tried to bring some order to his thoughts. First, his brother was in prison. Sherlock probably wouldn't be tried for murder if he took on a mission for MI6 had offered. Second, Mary Watson had shot Sherlock and circumstances surrounding it didn't sit well with Mycroft. Try as he might he cared for his brother far too much. Third, he had discovered to his utmost annoyance that he had been seriously disappointed when he had found Gregory had slept on the sofa this morning instead of having shared the bed with him. He had considered problem number three the easiest to resolve. The result had been a broken teacup, which he had flung against the wall of his office in frustration. It couldn't be helped, he had to talk to Gregory eventually in regard of their relationship turning into something more than being just friends. The problem of Mary Watson could be postponed. Back to trying to help Sherlock. With a sigh Mycroft picked up his phone to call in another favour.

oOo

Instead of ordering the cab to take him home, John automatically gave the address Baker Street to the cabbie. He had promised Mrs Hudson to call but he might as well tell her in person.

While the landlady made tea, John went upstairs to get some things he knew Sherlock would want. For a moment he stood in the doorway of their flat. Well, it wasn't his flat any more. Technically it wasn't even Sherlock's. He wondered if Mrs Hudson would put it back on the market after all. He didn't like the thought that people other than he and Sherlock would occupy these rooms.

He shook his head to get rid of the cobwebs. Walking through the flat he decided on three items to take. Sherlock's violin, naturally. He hoped they would allow the detective to have it. A book about bees, Sherlock had acquired just recently and not read as far as John knew. And for lack of a better idea he took the skull. He just imagined what the guards at the prison would say to that. He could always tell them they could consider themselves lucky he hadn't brought the contents from the fridge.

He took the items downstairs and sat down at Mrs Hudson's kitchen table. He really cared for her. She had a way to listen that made John tell her a lot more than he had intended. He certainly told her more than he had told Mycroft this morning.

Initially he hadn't planned to tell her about the kiss but he figured that she was really the only one he could tell. She'd probably think it strange he hadn't kissed Sherlock before but that would be it.

"How's Sherlock doing? He must be terribly bored being in that dungeon they locked him in."

"It's not a dungeon," John corrected her. "But I'm sure he is tired of being locked up already."

"You didn't stay very long," Mrs Hudson observed.

John looked at his hands, clearly embarrassed. "No, I..." He was at a loss for words.

"You didn't have a fight, did you?"

John took a deep breath. "At the wedding, at my wedding, Sherlock said that he loved me. I asked him if it was true and when he said yes, I told him I loved him too and kissed him." John had rushed through these words without stopping or breathing.

At first Mrs Hudson didn't seem to comprehend why John was so agitated but then understanding dawned on her face.

"You didn't tell Sherlock before that you loved him?"

"Um... no." John kept his eyes fixed on his teacup.

"And you haven't kissed him before either?"

"No."

"Oh dear."

When John didn't say anything else she asked him, "And did you like it?"

John blushed ferociously.

"Actually I did. And..." He sounded like he was ready for the ground to swallow him. "I sort of ran away afterwards."

Mrs Hudson looked like she would say 'Oh dear' again but it wasn't nearly a strong enough expression. Her "Good Lord!" came out sounding more like 'Shit!'

Studying John's expression, her heart went out to him. "You got yourself in quite a situation by getting married," she told him.

"And I'm going to be a father," John added.

"If you are lucky the baby isn't yours." Mrs Hudson sounded quite cheerful by that possibility. "But you have to go back and apologize to Sherlock." She told him in a stern voice.

"And what then?" John asked. "What?" He had no idea even what to ask.

"And then you do whatever it is you do with a person you are in love with."

oOo

When John got home he was almost shaking. Opening the door he thought having declared his love to Sherlock and having kissed him must surely be written all over his face in very bold letters.

Mary either didn't notice or decided not to mention it when she greeted him.

"How is Sherlock?" She asked, hugging John and putting her head on his shoulder.

"As well as could be expected. I'm going to see him again tomorrow. I picked up his violin, the skull and his new book about bees."

"You took the skull?" Mary scrunched up her face. John shrugged.

"I don't know. It feels like the right thing to do."

Mary took John by the hand and led him into the kitchen. "I'll make some tea," she declared. She pulled out cups, tea and milk and waited for the water to boil. John sat at the kitchen table. His head was lowered and his eyes averted. Had he worn a jumper with the word 'Guilty' printed in bright red letters at the front and back, he wouldn't have looked more liable than he already did. Putting the cup down in front of him, Mary gently squeezed his shoulder and went into the living room to give him some space.

John slowly sipped his tea while he stared at his hands, cradling the cup. Mary was puttering about the living room and John admitted that he didn't care what it was she was doing. He had wanted this, this marriage, right? He still loved her, didn't he? Yes, to both questions. He had wanted this marriage and he still wanted it. Well, he wanted to settle down. He wanted to love and be loved in return. Yes, he loved Mary – in a way. He knew he loved his baby that grew inside her. Part of his brain punched a fist in the air, having successfully found a heartfelt yes. Did he love Sherlock? Another fist flew up. Damn it! John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He loved Sherlock so much it made his stomach clench.

He had no illusion that his friend was in prison for no other reason then committing a crime for him, for John. Sherlock had killed for him like John had killed for Sherlock before.

John lifted his teacup when he noticed that he was crying. Unwanted tears rolled down his face and he couldn't even tell exactly why. Tears because of all the missed chances? The sheer madness of loving Sherlock? The fear of loosing him?

Suddenly John was pulled out of his chair and engulfed in a hug. Mary held him close, rubbing his back with soothing hands. "You love him, don't you?" She whispered.

John only nodded against he shoulder.

"Then spend as much time with him as possible, as long as you can. Show him how much you love him."

"Oh God!" John groaned. Did she know that her understanding made the situation almost worse? He nodded again, not knowing how to reply to her words. In a way Mary had given him permission to cheat on her. Was it even cheating when being permitted to... well, cheat?

John felt a new determination grow inside himself. He would go back to Sherlock the next day and he would show him all the love he felt for him. Somehow he would manage to do that.

He kissed Mary's cheek. "Thank you!" he said before pulling out his mobile and texting Mycroft that he wanted... no, that he demanded seeing Sherlock again the following day.


	3. Chapter 3 - 27th December

My thanks go again to my Canadian Beta Mapleleafcameo, to all those who read my story and of course those who follow, review and favour. For some obscure reason I still don't own any of the characters but still do as I please. :-)

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><p><strong>27<strong>**th**** December**

Greg got up after another nightshift around noon. Yawning, stretching and trying to bring some order to his short hair, which was sticking in all directions, he pulled back the curtains to look outside. Didn't look too bad, no snow or rain and he was in desperate need of daylight. After having a glass of orange juice and a banana for breakfast, he changed into his joggers and went outside for a run.

oOo

Work at the office was slow. Many people had taken the days off between Christmas and New Year, and Mycroft for once didn't mind that he had not much to do. Gregory had been working nights. It was almost one and he should be up and about by now. Most likely he wouldn't mind getting treated to some lunch. Mycroft decided to buy some sandwiches and salad, and half an hour later stood in front of his friend's door.

He was a bit surprised that Gregory opened the door for him freshly showered, '_dressed_' in only a towel, a phone pressed to one ear.

Gregory's face lit up visibly when he caught sight of Mycroft. "Come on in," he greeted him and pointed at the phone in his hand. "I just have to finish this call." The Inspector turned and walked away from the door, talking into his phone.

"Terrific. Yes, I can take care of that tomorrow. Hang on a sec." He turned around and came back to the door, where Mycroft was still standing.

"Are you planning to put down roots? It's getting cold in here." Greg grabbed Mycroft by the wrist, pulled him inside and closed the door. He shooed him towards the living room with a wave of his hand, dislodging the towel he was wearing in the process.

"For Christ sake..." Greg cursed, juggling with the phone and the towel for a moment before he disappeared inside his bedroom.

Mycroft decided that this had been way too much information to process. He kept staring at the empty space for a whole minute, waiting for his brain to reboot, before he put his coat on the rack and made it towards the living room. He very deliberately looked straight ahead when he passed the bedroom, but the door was closed.

Greg appeared only a couple of minutes later, dressed in jeans and a pale green shirt. He threw his phone on the table and sat down on the sofa to put on his socks.

"Sorry, Mycroft." Greg wiggled his toes in the woollen socks he had chosen. "Work." Turning his full attention to his friend, Greg smiled. "So, what brings you here?"

"I wanted to thank you for B & B the other night. Care for lunch?" He held up the bag he had brought.

oOo

Mary had waited half an hour after John had left to visit Sherlock, before she dug out a mobile that she kept hidden in an old shoe box in her closet. She activated the phone and dialled a number outside of England.

"Yes!" a male voice answered.

"There might be a change of plan."

"He won't be pleased." The male voice was perfectly neutral.

"I'll call again tomorrow."

Mary ended the call and powered down the mobile. Her voice had been calm and composed but she felt herself shaking slightly. One hand automatically went to her belly protectively. It all depended whether Sherlock would stay in prison or not. She hoped she would get news from John when he got home.

John came home only one hour after he had left. He was fuming. "They didn't let me see Sherlock!" John shouted. "I tried to get hold of Mycroft bloody Holmes but he didn't answer my call nor the text."

"Maybe he didn't have his mobile with him," Mary suggested.

John gave her a look like she had suggested inviting the Queen for a barbecue and maybe she could bring a salad. Mary had been closer to the truth than any one of them could know. For a whole hour Mycroft had been separated from his mobile. It had been in the pocket of his coat while he had lunch with the DI.

Knowing he couldn't calm down in the confinements of the house, John shrugged into the jacket he had just discarded. "I need some air." He left the house, almost running.


	4. Chapter 4 - 28th December

Disclaimer - the usual blah blah don't own (sob!) blah blah. :-)

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><p><strong>28<strong>**th**** December**

At 9.15am Mycroft knew that Sherlock had the option of going to prison for life or accepting the mission in Eastern Europe. He knew Sherlock would choose the mission. Being in prison would never be an option for his little brother. And his brother would not be an option for any prison. There would be riots the moment he arrived. The Government official's heart was heavy when he set out to pay Sherlock a visit. Not wanting to visit empty handed, he took a copy of the Telegraph and got some tea from a nearby café.

Of course, Sherlock knew the verdict the moment his brother stepped into the cell. Looking at Mycroft's posture was all that was necessary. Not really a surprise, was it? Guilty as charged, off to somewhere in Eastern Europe, most likely dead within the first six months.

Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt about it. Was he afraid? Yes. Whatever it was he had to face would be terrible, if Mycroft's expression was any indication. Furthermore, he really didn't want to leave London again. Sherlock loved London. He had missed the city the whole two years he had been away. London was so very much like Sherlock's mind. An orderly chaos, adventure that lurked around each corner, infinite diversion.

And there were also the people Sherlock considered his friends and cared for, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and, of course, John. Always John.

Still, again and again he came to the conclusion that killing Magnussen had been the right decision.

Accompanying the impending sense of doom was the fear of having driven John away by showing him the depth of his feelings. John had initiated the kiss, had told Sherlock that he loved him. But in the past, John had always pointed out that he wasn't gay. Most likely Sherlock had been the first man he had ever kissed.

"John Watson is going to visit you this afternoon," Mycroft told him, apparently having deduced about whom Sherlock had been thinking. Sherlock huffed and got up, pacing the cell. Mycroft watched him for a while before he spoke up again.

"Allowing the whole mess to get this far wasn't necessary, brother mine."

"You wouldn't understand why I did it," Sherlock snapped. "It has to do with friendship and caring for other people." At home Sherlock would have thrown himself onto the sofa and have turned his face to the wall.

Mycroft studied the floor before he replied softly. "I do understand, you know."

Sherlock was about to fire a snarky remark at his brother but looking at him he suddenly realised that when Mycroft had told him at Christmas he would have been heartbroken if Sherlock died, he had spoken the truth. Mycroft would be heartbroken when Sherlock died in Eastern Europe.

"When do I leave?" Sherlock asked.

"Probably the first of January."

"Happy New Year," Sherlock said, lifting the cup before taking a sip of the tea Mycroft had brought, ignoring his brother's pained expression.

"John can't... he must not know that the assignment will," he chose Mycroft's words, "prove fatal to me."

Mycroft nodded gravely.

Trying to change the subject, Sherlock tossed down the rest of his tea.

"Funny, don't you think, the names of all the people who hurt me start with an M. Moriarty, Magnussen..." Sherlock added Mary in this line of thought without speaking her name.

Mycroft didn't need to hear his name spoken out loud to know that Sherlock included it on the list. His expression fell even more but something stirred inside of him. He needed to get out. Needed to think.

"Well, I better leave you alone. John Watson should be here soon enough. Good day." Any other person than Mycroft would have run from the cell. He was still walking and only Sherlock, who knew him so well, could detect the speed in his movements.

oOo

It was 2pm when John showed up. He was carrying a duffle bag from which he extracted the case with Sherlock's violin, the book and the skull. The skull actually did make Sherlock laugh and part of the weight, that had been sitting within John's chest, was lifted.

"Sherlock, I'm really sorry I ran away the other day. I guess it was all a bit overwhelming for me." John ran a hand through his hair.

Sherlock hummed in a noncommittal sort of way. The rumbling sound that emitted from the detective's throat and chest made John wonder for the umpteenth time how a body so light could produce a sound so low.

'_What am I supposed to say?_' Sherlock wondered. '_Does he even want me to say anything?_' He decided to stay quiet, waiting for John to continue.

John lifted his face and in Sherlock the feeble hope blossomed that his friend would kiss him again. Maybe he would, but clearly not now. Sherlock detected compassion in the doctor's eyes. Why compassion? Because they would never be together?

"I'm not sure what to do now," John told Sherlock, deciding that honesty was the best way to broach the subject. Whatever the subject might happen to be.

Sherlock cocked his head, studying his friend curiously. "What options do you see?"

"I guess that depends on what's going to happen to you. Is there going to be a trial, are you going to get... I don't know... convicted..?"

"There won't be a trial," Sherlock interrupted him.

"Is Mycroft able to get you out?" John's voice and face was almost aglow with fresh hope.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'm going to get sent on a mission to Eastern Europe." He held up his hand. "And before you ask, I don't know any details. It is most likely though that I won't be able to return to England."

Usually Sherlock was in absolute control of hiding his feelings but the thought of leaving and never being able to see John again, had made Sherlock's throat constrict, changing his voice enough that John understood what hadn't been said.

The doctor's eyes widened. "Tell me, this is not true, Sherlock. It is a suicide mission, isn't it?"

Sherlock wanted to deny it but John knew him too well, so he nodded gravely.

John felt his eyes tear up and although he hated it, he felt powerless to do anything about it.

'_Damn it, I'm a grown up man. I am a doctor and a soldier!_' John thought furiously, clenching his fists, while he felt himself almost crumble from the onslaught of emotions.

His hand took hold of Sherlock's shirt without noticing. The fingers curled into a fist. John couldn't have said, if asked, if he held tight to hold himself upright or to prevent Sherlock from somehow disappearing.

The detective had never been exactly clever when it came to emotions but even he saw that John was all but collapsing. He took a step forward and pulled John into his embrace, letting John bury his face in his chest.

One hand went to John's neck, Sherlock's thumb stroking his skin ever so slightly, while the other hand went around his shoulders.

It took a whole minute before John's hands came up to circle Sherlock's waist. His hands crept forward until they had reached Sherlock's back and then the grip strengthened until John was pulling Sherlock close like he would never let go. Their chests pressed against each other, their heartbeats began to synchronise.

John's head was tucked under Sherlock's chin at first but then he pulled back a little and lifted his face. Their eyes locked and they pulled each other closer until their lips touched. Their first kiss two days ago had been heated and passionate, this kiss was much more gentle, soothing actually, lips moving against lips, tongues touching tentatively. John was glad that right now all he had to do was kiss. And kissing Sherlock was nice. More than nice, he realised. It was bloody marvellous. John still had to come to terms with his own being maybe not 'not gay' after all, and kissing still seemed to be a safe territory.

The kiss didn't remain soothing but got more passionate by the minute. Before John really knew what he was doing, one hand had found its way into Sherlock curls while the other had yanked the shirt out of his friend's trousers and was now gliding over the skin of Sherlock's back.

Breaking the kiss they looked at each other. Sherlock's pupils were fully dilated. With determined hands he took hold of John's jumper, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion, before crashing his mouth on John's again. Long, clever fingers ran over the toned back. John could almost feel Sherlock investigating his exposed torso so thoroughly that he was probably already creating an image of John in his mind. Just like a scan that slowly but surely was completed with bones, muscles and tissue before skin and hair was added to create a perfect copy.

Sherlock's right hand left the back and began touching John's hairless chest. He started at the hollow at his throat and went all the way down to the waistband of his trousers.

John had finally rustled up enough courage to do some exploration of his own. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, having the whole glory of pale chest displayed for him when the door of the cell swung open with enough force to slam into the wall with a thundering bang. Both Sherlock and John almost jumped of their skin.

"Sorry," the guard barked, smirking at them. "Your tea, Mr. Holmes." He sat a paper cup with tea on the small tabletop that was bolted to the wall.

Sherlock's face had transformed from shock to anger but finally displayed compassion.

"No problem," he told the guard. "Circumstances considered..."

"What circumstances?" the man asked, clearly confused.

"Oh, don't worry. Your secret is safe with us. And it's probably not your fault that your boyfriend is cheating. It's those feet of yours and the freckles, right?" Sherlock shook his head sadly while the guard shrank visible.

"Not nice to judge people for something they can't help. Even though it is", Sherlock gave the man a quick look over, "rather disgusting, isn't it?

The guard shrank back even more.

John had to bite his tongue. Otherwise he would have laughed out loud. Nevertheless he managed to add, "Not everyone can be as lucky as I am", putting a protective hand to Sherlock's chest before bestowing an utterly besotted smile upon the detective.

Now the guard almost had tears in his eyes when he backed out and closed the door behind him.

John blinked. "That was quite nasty."

Sherlock only shrugged. "He deserved every word."

"Do you really mean freckles are disgusting? And what's wrong with his feet?"

"There were stains of powder on the outside of both legs of his trousers. That powder is for treating bromodis. And you could recognize some stains of makeup along his hairline. The colour and texture indicates he uses it to cover his freckles."

"Why would he do that?"

"Ask Mycroft. He used to cover his when he was at university. Not that it helps a lot when you are covered with freckles from the top of your head all the way down to your toes and choose swimming for sports."

John furrowed his brow upon seeing Sherlock's gleeful grin but kept his mouth shut. However, because of the intrusion he was no longer in the mood for having his body mapped out by the curious detective.

John picked up his jumper and ignoring Sherlock's disappointed face, he put it on again.

They sat down on the bunk bed side by side and shared the single cup of tea, which was quite disgusting (the tea, not the sharing). For several minutes they just sat there before finally the awkward silence lifted and they talked again as they used to talk. Like friends.

oOo

_'I need your help. MH' _

_'Help as in "now with plenty of back up" or "at your convenience and only you and not a whole squad"? GL' _

_'You asap but please, no squad. MH'_

Instead of firing off another text, Greg dialled Mycroft's number.

"What's going on, Mycroft? Are you OK?"

Greg heard the politician's heartfelt sigh, which answered the second question. "I can't tell you on the phone. It would be best if you came to my house."

"Limo?"

"Yes. In one hour?"

"I'm still at the office but in an hour is okay."

"Maybe you can pack a change of clothing," Mycroft's voice gave away his embarrassment, and instead of his usual tone that ordered instead of requested, this sentence almost carried a question mark at the end.

Greg chuckled softly. "I'd be glad to." He heard the relieved huff of breath.

"Have you eaten?"

"No. Thai would be nice." Greg already knew Mycroft would take care of food.

"I'll tell the driver to pick up something on the way."

oOo

The car was idling by the curb in front of Greg's flat sixty minutes later and soon he sat in Mycroft's dining room with a plate full of spicy Thai food and a cold beer. Eating take-away in a room that could entertain most of the staff of Downton Abbey felt very odd, and Greg wondered if Mycroft had a butler stashed away in his house.

They ate in silence. Greg watched Mycroft who was clearly not yet ready to talk about whatever it was he needed help with. He could hear the man's brain almost buzzing from activity. This was most certainly about Sherlock.

When they had eaten, they carried their plates into the kitchen. Seeing Mycroft's back stiff as a board, Greg put a hand on his shoulder, flexing his fingers lightly against the hard muscles.

"Hey, let's sit down and talk. Whatever is upsetting you so much, you don't have to face it alone."

Steering Mycroft towards the living room where a fire was burning in the fireplace they sat down in the armchairs facing each other. Greg had another beer and Mycroft a glass of red wine.

Mycroft took a mouthful of his wine, set down the glass and then he laid out the plan he needed help with, which left Greg rather speechless.

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><p>I just want to clarify: Please, don't get any funny ideas from the words directed at the guard. I love freckles! Especially Mycroft's! :-)<p> 


	5. Chapter 5 - 29th December

**29****th**** December**

They worked until early morning when Greg was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. Glad he had brought a change of clothing for he had to go to work in a few hours, Greg climbed into the bed in the guest room and was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Three hours and a shower later, Greg was still tired but felt quite posh when a black limo spat him out in front of New Scotland Yard. It caused some raised eyebrows but armed with a big cup of fantastic tasting coffee and an even bigger grin, Greg was ready to face the day.

A double murder with no witnesses and hardly any traces, was dropped in his lap almost as soon as he had emptied his coffee cup. Also he had a list of tasks Mycroft had emailed him. Both would keep him busy for the remainder of the day.

oOo

John sat at the breakfast table, eating his toast and drinking his tea without really tasting anything. He told Mary about Sherlock's imminent departure in a few days. She sounded and looked genuinely shocked, which was exactly how she felt. If Sherlock stayed, everything would be so much easier. Him leaving, left her only with one choice and she already dreaded the call she'd have to make.

John was back to visit Sherlock later that day. The guard who searched his backpack gave him a funny look when he discovered a thermos with tea, a couple of sandwiches and a few of Sherlock's favourite biscuits. But the man kept his mouth shut. It was the same one who had interrupted them the other day. Apparently he wasn't interesting in receiving another lecture about his past and current situation in life from his prisoner.

On his way over, John had thought about topics he could discuss with Sherlock. The newspaper he had read (and brought), some funny stuff from work (things he really shouldn't discuss because of doctor-patient-confidence) and he wanted to ask him about the book about the bees.

Sure enough Sherlock had other ideas. He quizzed John thoroughly about his time in the army. The stories involving the comradeship of the soldiers were those he was most interested in. John figured that for Sherlock, who mostly had lived as a loner, the whole concept was puzzling. He tried to envision his friend spending days and weeks with his mates from Afghanistan. He couldn't. They probably would have sent Sherlock to the enemy with high hopes the detective would talk them into committing suicide one by one.

The morning turned into afternoon far too quickly and eventually the talkative mood died down.

They got as comfortable as possible on the bunk bed with John on his back and Sherlock on top of him. It was all soft kisses and tender touches, both of them trying to ease the sadness that had settled in. The fast approaching departure was looming in the background.

oOo

"You said you would call yesterday." The male voice on the phone sounded displeased.

"There was no news." Mary answered more calmly than she felt.

"Is there now?"

"Yes. He is going to leave. Soon. We have to postpone."

"That might not be possible."

"Make it possible. We had an agreement." Mary's voice was almost pleading.

"You've put too much heart into it already. You know he could end..."

"No!" She almost shouted. "No, please. It's only for a few months. It will be of no consequence."

"I don't agree but I will tell him. Although he might decide to have the interfering party removed."

The man hung up before Mary had the chance to reply. Her hands were trembling when she switched off the phone.

oOo

Greg managed to fall asleep as soon as he had slumped into the seat of the limousine that had picked him up from work. He could just imagine the rumours and excitement it caused that a DI suddenly got posh and was driven around in a limousine. How little he cared.

Mycroft opened the door for him and when Greg caught sight of him, the Inspector wondered if the man had slept at all.

"Two hours," Mycroft admitted, when he was asked.

"Let's try to make it six tonight," Greg suggested. "You are more alert and work faster."

Greg began massaging Mycroft's shoulders as soon as the man had sat down. Mycroft was startled for moment but he relaxed quickly under the expert touch. After a few minutes Greg stopped.

"I have a request," he told Mycroft, showing him the case file he had brought. "Would you mind having a look?"

"You ensnare me to use my talents? I'm wounded, Gregory," Mycroft replied.

"Shall I woo you some more, dear sir?" Greg replied.

Both men snorted with laughter before Mycroft, who didn't look wounded at all, plucked the file from the Inspector's hands. Greg meanwhile sat down at the laptop Mycroft had provided and continued with his own work.

Naturally Greg had barely managed to get started when the Government official declared the man who drove the bus both victims rode every morning, had killed them.

"Amazing," Greg told him, "you're even faster than Sherlock."

Mycroft only raised one elegant eyebrow. "There's nothing amazing about it. I'm smarter than Sherlock."

Greg slipped onto the sofa, next to Mycroft, who pointed out the facts that had led to the conclusions he had drawn. The Inspector kept shaking his head upon his own blindness and Mycroft's genius. Greg wasn't sure he should feel better by Mycroft's statement; he simply played in a higher league.

Of course, Mycroft insisted, his name could never be mentioned, especially to Sherlock.

Solving the problem gave Greg more time to work on Mycroft's project. And he could use the new findings for an explanation why he had to get back to NSY in the middle of the night.

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><p>Sorry, this has been a bit of a short chapter but the next one is longer and you only have to wait a few days until it's published. :-)<p> 


	6. Chapter 6 - 30th December

Later in this chapter I have Sherlock playing the violin. I discovered a piece of music on youtube that imho accompanies the mood rather beautifully. In case you want to try it, look for **When** at the beginning of the last part of this chapter. Go to youtube dot com, add a slash, the word _watch _and right afterwards_ ?v=QuNhTLVgV2Y_

Yes, I'd be very interested to heard if it worked and what you think about my choice of music.

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><p><strong>30th December<strong>

It was shortly after midnight when Greg walked into the building of NSY. Mycroft had given him a USB and other equipment, for Greg was about to break into the office of New Scotland Yard's commissioner. The thought alone sent a chill down the DI's spine. Mycroft had promised him some obscure form of diplomatic immunity should he get caught but Greg happened to like his job and also wanted to remain a DI. If anybody other than Mycroft had asked, Greg would have never complied.

Greg explained to the surprised desk officer that he had a lead on the murder case he worked on and as he couldn't sleep anyway he might as well do his work in the middle of the night. He knew he was rambling. There was no need for him to explain why he went to his office. But the guard was happy to chat for a moment. Working nights was often boring and Greg took a few minutes to talk to the man, calming his own nerves in the process.

Eventually he went into his office and set up a small camera that enabled Mycroft to see if someone came looking for the DI, in which case he could alert him. Greg put a tiny device in his ear and hung a pendant around his neck, which made it possible for him to hear and talk to Mycroft.

Armed with a special torch, goggles, disposable gloves, the USB and a set of false keys, Greg went to the office of the commissioner. He would be so very fucked if he got caught.

"Relax, Gregory," Mycroft's drawl could be heard in the earpiece. "You are doing fine and you won't get caught."

Greg snorted quietly. "You do read my mind as a hobby, don't you?" The only answer he received was a low chuckle. But it did help him to relax.

Putting on the gloves when he had reached the corridor on the upper floor, he soon began picking the lock. It was almost child's play and it took less than a minute before he could slip inside the dark office. The light from the special torch Mycroft had also provided worked with the goggles Greg wore, enabling him to see. He put the USB into the respective slot and booted the computer. A link was set up with Mycroft's computer and Greg watched the data transfer with mixed feelings. When the transfer was complete, he pocketed the USB, made certain the office looked exactly the same as before and crept back to his office.

For a couple of minutes he just sat there, waiting for his pounding heart to slow down to regular speed. To keep up the ruse Greg finished the report he had prepared before and left. It wasn't even two o'clock when he arrived back at Mycroft's house.

Tired beyond believe, Greg quietly handed over the equipment and headed straight for the bedroom he considered his for the duration of time. He acknowledged Mycroft's soft "Thank you, Gregory!" with only a nod.

Greg was fast asleep within minutes. He didn't even notice Mycroft entering the room and fishing the DI's bunch of keys from the pocket of his trousers. Mycroft attached a new key, the key to his house, and put it back. For a moment he regarded the sleeping man. The warm feeling that spread through his chest told Mycroft that Gregory most likely held more than just a key to his house.

oOo

"I'm going to call Mycroft," John declared over breakfast. "I'm sorry, Mary, but I really want to spend the last night Sherlock is in England with him. I know we should use New Year's Eve to make a fresh start but perhaps we can do that with a few hours delay."

John knew very well that a few hours later he would be in no mood whatsoever to celebrate neither the beginning of a new year nor his doubt-able future with Mary but he tried making an effort.

Mary got up and kissed him on the top of his head. "That's alright, my love."

John grabbed his wife, for the first time really feeling her presence giving him comfort again. Mary held him close, kissed him and caressing his back by drawing slow circles with her hands.

Eventually John kissed Mary on her forehead and knelt down. He spread both hands over her belly, and kissed it through her clothes.

"Hello, baby!" He whispered, putting his ear to her belly. For a moment he didn't move but then he lifted his head and smiled at Mary. "She said that her mother is the most wonderful woman in the world."

Mary bit her lips and now felt herself close to crying. She pulled John's head against her belly with both hands, holding him there for a minute or two.

"You wanted to call Mycroft," she told John eventually, pushing him away gently.

"I talk to our baby and you think about Mycroft? Anything I should know?" He wiggled his eyebrows, making her laugh.

"No!" she told John in a stern voice, "I need to pee." John laughed and got up when Mary turned around and hurried to the bathroom.

oOo

"You want to do what?" Mycroft didn't sound amused. "John, this is not the United States and Sherlock hasn't received a death sentence that would allow him to spend his last night with..." he hesitated only for the fraction of a second, "... to spend his last night with a loved one."

"I don't care!" John literally shouted. "Just do it, will you? You owe us this much." John ended the call, not knowing what else to say.

Mycroft looked at the phone in disbelieve.

"What was that about?" Greg asked, having only heard Mycroft's annoyed tone of voice from the adjacent room.

Mycroft still looked nonplussed, his arms were hanging at his side while he reviewed the conversation. "John wants to spend the night before Sherlock has to leave with him in prison," he said.

Greg pursed his lips and shrugged. "So? If it was you in prison and I knew you would be sent away the following day, I would want to spend the last night with you."

Mycroft looked at him. "You would?"

Greg rolled his eyes. He walked over, took the phone away from Mycroft and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"Of course, I would. You're my friend." A thought occurred to Greg. "Wouldn't you, if the roles were reversed?"

"No." Greg felt a pang of disappointment. "No," Mycroft repeated, "I would go with you."

"Aww, shit, Myc!" A broad grin invaded Greg's face and he hugged his friend. "You never seize to amaze me."

"I'm certain John would follow my brother right into hell and back if Sherlock would allow it and the good doctor didn't have a pregnant wife for his accessory," Mycroft said, returning the hug.

"True," Greg said against Mycroft's shoulder. "While we're at it, why can't Sherlock know that you're helping him?"

"He can't know that **we **are helping him because later on he needs to investigate to his best of abilities to be convincing. Knowing Sherlock, it is most likely he might see it as a waste of time to investigate properly, knowing there is nothing to find. And certain people in the government, who need to be convinced my brother is the only one who can clear up this mess, might comprehend that I interfered after all."

Greg released Mycroft, stepped back and grudgingly admitted that the man was right. He held out the phone to Mycroft.

"Still, you need to make a call to enable Sherlock and John to spend New Year's Eve together."

oOo

Sherlock had played the violin for the past two hours. Playing his instrument was something else he had dearly missed when he had dismantled Moriarty's network. Just a few weeks before he had been captured in Serbia, he had been composing a melody for John. He hadn't used it at the wedding. No, 'For John' was a much too personal piece of music. Too much of Sherlock's self, his soul, had been poured into his composition.

Initially he had begun scribbling on a napkin in a cheap restaurant in Smederevo. A few days later he had met a street musician who played the violin. The man had helped him find food and shelter, and in return Sherlock had shown him a few tricks to improve his play. The man had gladly handed over his instrument and had marveled at Sherlock's skill. When Sherlock had begun playing the few notes of his composition, the man had begun crying and asked, "You did love her very much, did you?"

Sherlock had nodded and turned away. There was no way he could or would explain the complicated relationship he had with John.

Now the melody was almost complete and Sherlock decided that he should leave a recording for John. It was possible that John would be heartbroken enough to never listen to the recording, still Sherlock wanted to have a parting gift.

oOo

John had left to visit Sherlock only a few minutes ago, when Mary found the man sitting in their living room. She shouldn't have been startled for her instincts used to be flawless. They used to be flawless but lately she found she had lost her touch. She got over her surprise quickly but had trouble hiding the fear.

"My husband could come back any minute. He can't find you here."

"I agree." The man pursed his lips. "Then we better hope he doesn't come back."

Mary swallowed.

"It was decided that I talk to you in person," the man told her. He stood up, and had her cornered between the door and a cupboard with two long strides. He tightened his hands in a painful grip on her chin.

"Now, my dear," the man pulled out a hunter's knife and dragged the blade slowly along Mary's protruding belly, "I could cut her out right here." To emphasize his statement he pressed the tip of the blade to her side with just enough strength to penetrate her blouse as well as the skin. Mary gasped but otherwise made no sound. He withdrew the blade showing her the drop of blood at the tip.

"If I had a saying in this," the man almost spat out the words, "I would take her right here right now. But it seems to me you are lucky. He is willing to give you another six weeks."

"Only six weeks?"

"Six weeks. And not a day more." He released her chin and the knife disappeared inside the thick army jacket the man wore. "And those six weeks only apply if he leaves."

"Nobody has the power to get him out of this mess. Sherlock is beyond help."

The man smirked. "It ain't over until it's over." He walked towards the door but before he left he turned around one more time.

"Six weeks!"

The moment he was gone Mary allowed herself to collapse into the armchair. Both hands pressed to her belly she tried to regain control. Six weeks. Not much but still better than nothing. She touched her side where the blade had left a tiny wound. She'd better take care of it as well as her blouse. If John saw it, he would ask questions.

oOo

**When** John walked into the cell, Sherlock was playing the violin. He acknowledged John's presence with a tilt of his head but continued without interrupting his play. The piece he played was sad, almost haunting, and John felt goosebumps rise while he listened.

Sherlock was standing with his eyes closed, swaying while he played. John couldn't take his eyes of his friend, skillfully handling the instrument. His knees were weak when he sat down on the bunk bed. The mere thought that this was probably the last time he saw his friend play felt like an icy hand was squeezing his heart and almost made him crumble.

'One more miracle, for me, Sherlock!' Sherlock had obeyed. He had come back. But now John needed another miracle after all.

A thought occurred to him. He could go with him. If he asked Sherlock, he wouldn't allow it. But Mycroft would know where Sherlock would be. John had been a soldier and enough experience in leading rescue missions under his belt. He didn't care where he lived as long as he was with Sherlock. Surely they could live abroad. A doctor could find work everywhere.

"No!" John was startled. He hadn't even realised the music had stopped. But now he found Sherlock standing in front of him, looking at him with those amazing eyes that held all the sadness in the world. But also all the tenderness Sherlock had never felt for anyone but John.

"You can't come along." Sherlock's voice reflected how touched he was by his friend's unspoken plan he had deduced by the expression on his face.

"But Sherlock..." John almost shouted in his desperation.

Sherlock put down the violin before he pulled John into his arms, crushing him to his chest.

"We are grown up men. What do you suggest? We run away? I from the price I have to pay for killing Magnussen? And you, from your wife and child? "

John buried his face in Sherlock's neck, clinging to him. His mind literally screamed, 'I don't care!' and only the knowledge, that he would make it only more painful for Sherlock if he completely broke apart, held him upright.

* * *

><p>Oh, by the way - the story will get an M rating next weekend, so it won't show up in the list of stories unless you change to <em>all ratings<em> or _M_ in the filter.


	7. Chapter 7 - 31st December

**31****st**** December**

When John stepped into the cell, Sherlock was lying on his back, eyes closed, his fingers steepled under his chin. He looked serene. If he was in turmoil because of his imminent departure, he certainly didn't show it. For a moment John just stood there, drinking in the sight of his friend. He quickly pulled out his mobile and took a picture. Putting it away he approached Sherlock who opened his eyes and looked at him.

"John." Sherlock didn't say anything else but John felt all the fear and sadness crashing down on him again. And he hated it. He hated being so weak, spoiling the last hours they had together.

Sherlock was up right away and John walked into his embrace, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Just hold me. Please." John's throat constricted and he couldn't talk any more. He managed a stiff upper lip, prevented tears from falling but with a fist of ice clawing at his heart that was all he could achieve.

Minutes went by during which Sherlock held his friend and murmured in a low soothing voice. One hand rubbed in gentle circles over John's back, Sherlock's other hand cradled John's head, a thumb caressing the skin just below his hairline.

Eventually John felt calm enough to step back. He wondered if Sherlock would be appalled by this outburst but if he was, he didn't show it.

"I'm sorry," he apologized again. He walked over to the sink to wash his face with cold water. When he looked up he met Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. His friend's expression was gentle and he looked as if he held his own display of feelings at bay for the sake of John. Sherlock knew that John would probably fall apart if he gave in to his own sadness.

Pulling the thermos with tea from his backpack, John filled two cups.

"Tea to celebrate New Year's Eve?"

John laughed and sniffled a bit. "Only for now. I don't think I could survive without tea."

"And the tea industry probably wouldn't survive without you," Sherlock replied.

"True." John managed a small smile. "They would go bust if I switched to coffee."

They sat down on the bunk bed and drank their tea in companionable silence. Before long John was composed again and dug into his backpack, extracting a couple of bowls with lids on it and a bottle of wine.

"With compliments from Angelo's," he told Sherlock, opening the lids to reveal Sherlock's favourite dishes. He uncorked the wine bottle, filling two glasses he had also brought.

"To best friends!"

Sherlock smiled. That was a toast he could return full-heartedly. "Best friends."

They clinked their glasses and both took a gulp.

Sherlock refrained from sentiments like 'last meal' before he took the fork John offered him and began eating.

oOo

In the morning Greg had arrested the bus driver who had committed the double murder. Fortunately, the man had confessed almost immediately and being the DI in charge, Greg had for once taken the liberty of forwarding the paperwork to his team and had gone to the pub.

He had two beers and a 'steak, ale and mushroom pie', before he told the bartender he had forgotten his money. He left his mobile by way of security and went to Mycroft's house.

Before he had left for work, Mycroft had told him about the key and also told him the security code to the alarm system of the house. Now the DI tried the key and security code, hoping he did it right for he rather feared the consequences of a mistake – snipers, gargoyles or whatever else was protecting Mycroft's house.

Greg went to the en-suit of his bedroom to take a shower. When he had changed and came downstairs, he found his friend standing in front of the open fireplace, rubbing his hands to warm them. Mycroft was clad in very uncharacteristic black trousers and a grey sweater. Greg refrained from asking if he had managed to disable the two security cameras as planned, for if he hadn't, Mycroft wouldn't have been back.

Mycroft spoke without turning around. "You left your mobile at the pub?"

"Yes, they almost didn't want to accept it. The bartender knows I'm a Yarder, said I was trustworthy enough to bring money tomorrow without them holding my mobile hostage.

Mycroft nodded. After a short pause he turned around. "I presume you have plans for tonight?"

Greg blinked. "Plans? Why would I have plans for tonight?"

"It's New Year's Eve. People do meet with their friends on days like this."

"You are here, I am here, we are friends – tada!" Greg replied and spread his hands before a thought occurred to him. "Or is this a polite way to tell me to leave because you have plans of your own? Maybe some posh friends of yours are coming over for a champagne and caviar party." He winked to take the sting from his words.

Mycroft studied a spot directly in front of his feet when he spoke up. "I don't have friends." Looking at his counterpart he added. "I have only one friend and that is you."

"Oh." Greg's mouth formed a perfect O in surprise. All things considered, he didn't have any other friends either. There were his mates from football, some he met at the pub, John and Sherlock and a bunch of colleagues. But Mycroft was the only person who fit the definition of a close friend.

Deciding it would sound flat revealing his string of thoughts to Mycroft, he shook his head.

"Well, I don't have any plans and if you don't have any either, why don't we enjoy the evening together. I had lunch but I wouldn't mind a nice dinner and later we could watch the fireworks."

A smile was sneaking onto Mycroft's face. It started around his mouth, deepened the lines between his nose and cheeks and eventually crinkled the corners of his eyes. When the transformation was complete, the man looked as if he was illuminated from the inside.

"I'd like that very much, Gregory."

Sparkling brown eyes met glittering blue ones.

"Terrific. I need to go home to fetch my best suit..."

"...and I'm going to pick you up at 9pm."

oOo

Mary sat at the table in the living room. With disgust she eyed a small bowl of tomato salad, a sandwich and a glass of apple juice. John was with Sherlock and Mary knew that this night with Sherlock meant that they were probably doing much more than just talking. Maybe it was for the better. All would be over soon enough.

For a moment she wondered if the trouble she had gotten herself into by winning another six weeks was really worth it. Being a woman of action she decided she might as well use John's absence. She needed to prepare and time was running out.

Mary pulled the plate with her food towards her and while she ate she made a mental list what she could accomplish tonight while John was away.

* * *

><p>Okay, the rating of the story goes to M after this chapter. The 1st January doesn't fit into one chapter. Well, theoretically it would but I decided against it and made three chapters.<p>

If you were waiting for Sherlock and John going further than kissing, that's the next chapter. And in case you want to read anything but that, just skip it. :-)


	8. Chapter 8 - 1st January, Part 1

Don't own anything but owe heartfelt thanks to the wonderful creators of this lovely series, not to mention the terric actors who portay them so well.

* * *

><p><strong>1<strong>**st**** January – Part 1**

The New Year began like John had wished it would. Sherlock was playing 'Auld Long Syne' on his violin. Instead of having his eyes closed like he often had, Sherlock looked at John while he played. In return John watched every move Sherlock made, trying to etch the image as well as the music into his memory.

When the music was over, Sherlock carefully laid his violin back into its case, certain he would never play the instrument again. In one last sentiment, he ran his fingers over the exquisite wood before he closed the lid. When he had sat the violin case down and turned around, he found John standing in front of him.

As if they had done it numerous times, both men took a step forward before they angled their heads to kiss. There was nothing hurried in this kiss. A touch of lips moving against the other. Lips that parted under the gentle ministration to allow the glide of a tongue. Johns hands came up, one going straight into Sherlock's hair, the other to the small of his back to hold him close. Sherlock's hands were on John's biceps, his fingers kneading in rhythm with the kiss.

When they broke apart, Sherlock brushed John's hair away from his forehead. His fingertips ghosted over the skin while he fixed him with a look so intense only Sherlock was capable of. John swallowed, took a step back and without taking his eyes away from Sherlock he unbuttoned his shirt. He removed it and afterwards shrugged out of the t-shirt he wore underneath. Before Sherlock could unbutton his own shirt, John was there again.

"Please, let me do it." The first words he spoke in this New Year.

Sherlock let his hands fall down his sides and he watched with fascination how John turned this simple task of unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt into a ritual. Blunt fingers pushed small buttons through even smaller holes, ever so slowly displaying the pale and hard plane of chest. Blue eyes took in the sight, noticing the smattering of dark hair, brownish nipples that contracted when the cool air hit them and, of course, the still oh so fresh scar, where the bullet had struck.

Once the shirt was open, John yanked the tails of the shirt from Sherlock's trousers and he pushed the soft material off the man's shoulders. Instead of putting it down, John took the shirt, buried his face in the soft material and inhaled. Sherlock's swallowed hard upon this sensual action.

John put the shirt down and turned toward his friend again. He stepped close to him, trailing his fingers slowly across the skin. His eyes were focused on the reaction of the skin underneath his fingertips. He watched goosebumps rise and nipples turn into hard nubs.

Sherlock knew his body was beautiful but having it worshipped like this made him almost tremble with excitement. John leaned forward and continued his exploration of Sherlock's torso by kissing the collarbone. His lips began to learn all there was to learn. How the skin quivered when he licked it, how Sherlock moaned when he first sucked and then gently nipped it, before he brought their bare chests together and pulled Sherlock's head down for another kiss.

Sherlock had himself denied the pleasures for so long and now he understood why. It simply wasn't possible for anyone to touch him like John did, to tease out so much pleasure with a simple touch of fingers to bare skin.

"John." His name was a growl that came from deep within Sherlock's chest. John looked up and the stare from the lust-blown eyes were enough to make John's knees going weak.

The kiss deepened and passion flared up like a flame suddenly provided with more oxygen. Their hips rolled against each other, creating delicious friction against their erections still trapped in now too tight trousers.

John's strong hands gripped and squeezed both of Sherlock's buttocks, pulling him even closer. Sherlock's clever hands managed to sneak between their bodies and he made short work of John's belt, the button on his jeans and the zip. He didn't pull down the trousers but shoved his hands inside to cup John through his pants. The grunt that came out of John's throat was purely predatory. Sherlock kept kneading the hard flesh with one hand, while holding John in place with the other.

"God, Sherlock, stop. Or I come right in my pants before we really get started."

Feeling his own self-control crumbling bit by bit without having felt John's touch where he wanted it so very much, Sherlock complied.

For a minute or two they simply held each other close, trying to regain some control. They opened their eyes almost simultaneously and when they looked at each other, they smiled like they often did. The pure joy of being in each other's presence lit the fire inside their eyes.

In silent agreement Sherlock knelt down. He undid John's shoes and pulled them off together with his socks. Knowing from experience that the floor was rather cold, he quickly pulled down both John's trousers and pants. He hadn't meant to do it but kneeling in front of John meant his eyes were at about the same height as the other man's erection. And for a moment Sherlock stared. Not so much different from his own but purely John and therefore beautiful to his eyes. He reached out, and ran his fingers along the side of the shaft, causing John to produce the most unholy sound.

Blinking himself back into reality, Sherlock stood up and in a few efficient moves discarded his own clothes before he pushed John down onto the bunk bed.

Swiftly Sherlock went on top of him, entangling his long legs with John's shorter but muscular ones. He groaned into the nape of John's neck, the contact with the other man's body was nearly enough to push him over the edge. His mouth was on John's again, almost forcing his tongue inside his mouth in suggestion of what else he'd like to do to him. John's hands seemed to be everywhere. Fingers pinched Sherlock's nipples, one hand was squeezing his buttocks again and somehow John managed almost simultaneously to sneak a hand between their bodies to take hold of Sherlock's cock. They were already too far-gone to do something more elaborate and after a few strokes Sherlock dissolved into orgasm, followed by John only seconds later. They kept rutting against each other, moaning while the friction took them to unknown heights.

With a final groan Sherlock collapsed on top of John, not caring about the sticky wetness between their bodies, wondering if this wouldn't be the perfect moment to die, since nothing the future held in store for him, could possibly be any better.

oOo

They must have fallen asleep because the next time John opened his eyes his watch showed him that it was almost three in the morning. He was lying on his back, comfortably warm under the lanky body of his friend and lover.

'Not gay. Right, Watson!' He grinned. Well, it was true in a way. He had never wished to get sexually involved with a man. Maybe he should have made the distinction between Sherlock and other men sooner, because there was simply no way they could be compared. This gorgeous being that was currently wrapped around him like some creature sprung from a fairy tale, was unique in his own way. That combination of brain and beauty within this one man, John feared, most likely had spoiled him for the rest of his life. How could he ever love, ever desire, anybody else?

John was startled when Sherlock lifted his head. Full lips curved into a smile, Sherlock's amazing eyes looking down on him lovingly. They both moved. The position they had held far too long in the confinements of the narrow bunk bed made their joints ache slightly. For a while they kept shifting around until they actually sat face-to-face, groins touching, their legs curved around each other's body.

Sherlock pulled John close, angled his head and began nuzzling the other man's neck. John immediately felt the stirring deep inside his belly. When Sherlock captured him in a kiss John felt his cock twitch in appreciation. Since when had it been so easy to arouse him? He noticed however that it wasn't a one sided phenomena. Having his groin pressed to Sherlock's it was easy enough to feel that it wasn't just him who was half hard already from a mere kiss.

They kept kissing and touching, continuing their earlier exploration until both were breathless. Before John had the chance to react, Sherlock pushed him onto his back again. This time however he didn't cover John with his own body but nudged his legs apart.

A string of swearwords poured from John's mouth when Sherlock closed his lips around his cock and started sucking. Sherlock deduced that John was a very religious man after all from the way he kept calling out to all deities known in this universe and beyond, while Sherlock bobbed his head up and down, sucking John's cock as deep as possible into his mouth.

But it pleased Sherlock the most, when his own name was the loudest exclamation that spilled from John's lips right when he came into his mouth.

Eventually John collapsed into a boneless heap, wondering if it was possible to have a vacuum in his testicles. Sherlock must have sucked him completely dry. When he felt that his voice would obey him again, he looked into Sherlock's smug face.

"Give me a few minutes. I think I couldn't move even if the whole building decided to collapse on top of us right now."

Sherlock scooped him up against his chest, marveling at the way John's body connected with his. They were like two pieces of a very complicated puzzle. Both so very different but made to fit perfectly.

The detective wondered if John had fallen asleep when he was pushed down on his back. Pushing his legs apart, John's hand closed around Sherlock's testicles, rolling them in his hand, fondling and squeezing. It didn't take long for Sherlock to start squirming. John sucked at his middle finger before he continued his ministration. But now he added an extra touch to Sherlock's perineum, drawing a loud moan from his mouth.

Sherlock had no idea what John was doing but it felt incredible. His toes began to curl and he couldn't help but push up his hips, wordlessly begging for more. John was all too happy to comply. He had never done this but he knew what he liked himself. So when he bent down and took Sherlock in his mouth he wasn't too surprised to have him shouting soon.

When he felt Sherlock's testicles were drawing close to his body, he gave the crown of his cock another quick swipe with his tongue before moving up to his chest. His teeth were nipping gently at Sherlock's nipples, causing the man underneath him to thrash so violently, John was almost thrown down from the bunk bed. A dressed Sherlock was a sight to behold but naked and fully aroused the man was a piece of art that would have made a Bernini proud.

Sherlock had his head thrown back, his throat exposed, making his neck look even longer. The elegant fingers clawed at the covers and the strained muscles of his limbs stood out in high definition. His hips were still raised, begging John to do something, anything to satisfy his need.

And John complied. He bent his neck, taking Sherlock into his mouth one more time and sucked as hard as he could. If he hadn't been lying down already, Sherlock would have gotten knocked off his feet by the force the orgasm hit him with. He writhed and shouted and kept repeating John's name over and over like a mantra, until it was over.

* * *

><p>Well, that was the first Johnlock slash I wrote. What do you think?<p> 


	9. Chapter 9 - 1st January, Part 2

Thanks again for all who reviewed, favourited and follow the story. Also thank you again _Mapleleafcameo_ for beta-ing. Wouldn't have been possible without you.

* * *

><p><strong>1<strong>**st**** January – Part 2**

When the guard opened the door at exactly seven o'clock, he found two men sitting beside each other on the bunk bed, holding hands. They were composed and nothing except the exhausted looks around their eyes gave a hint, how they had spent the night.

They stood up but before John could leave the cell, Sherlock pulled him almost roughly against his chest and kissed him thoroughly until the guard cleared his throat audibly.

"See you in a bit," John said, his voice hoarse but otherwise more composed than he had expected it to be.

The door was slammed shut and Sherlock was alone in his cell again.

oOo

Greg sat in Mycroft's kitchen and drank his third cup of coffee. The evening both men had spent together had been everything Greg could have asked for. The dinner Mycroft had treated him to, had been fantastic and at midnight they had stood near Big Ben, counting the strokes of the bell together with numerous other people. They had hugged each other and Greg was almost certain he had felt Mycroft's lips touching his cheek. After the fireworks they had gone back to Mycroft's house, craving sleep after the past exhausting days.

However, Greg hadn't slept well. A thought about their plan had kept coming back over and over again and prevented him from sleeping more than a couple of hours.

Mycroft was smart beyond belief but he had overlooked a small but important detail in his plan. If he thought it vital that Sherlock couldn't know about their interference, Mycroft had to act like he would never see his brother again. The politician was elegant and smooth in his negotiations. He could hide his emotions very well but Greg had serious doubts that he would be able to fake being sad or even heartbroken. The only way to make Mycroft looking sad and heartbroken would be to hurt him, badly. Greg hated the thought of doing that but the way he saw it, he was the only one who could do that at this point.

And he really, really hoped that Mycroft accepted his apology later, for he wanted to continue this relationship. When they had hugged that night, Greg had felt deep down inside that he was falling in love with Mycroft.

He picked up noises that told him Mycroft was up and about. They had another hour until he would leave to fetch Sherlock from prison. Propping up his chin in one hand, Greg wondered what he needed to say, how far he needed to go.

He almost jumped out of his skin in surprise when he the scent of a freshly showered Mycroft descended upon him.

"Good morning, Gregory. You are up early." Mycroft started the kettle to boil water for his tea.

'Shit', Greg thought, 'this won't be easy.' He lowed his head, knowing he was going to hurt himself in the process just as much as Mycroft.

"I've been thinking," Greg said, trying to avoid Mycroft's gaze, "this plan of yours, it's not going to work."

Greg glanced at Mycroft. The smile that had been on his face began to fade away quickly.

"Why do you say that?"

"Seriously, Mycroft. Even if we manage to get the whole thing running, what makes you think Sherlock is been let off the hook? He's still a murderer."

Mycroft's whole stance changed from friend to politician in a blink of an eye. Although he stood on bare feet, wearing only his trousers and shirt he suddenly looked more forbidding than Greg had ever seen him.

"Is there a reason, you are coming up with all this now?" Mycroft's voice was icy and his eyes displayed a mixture of anger, hurt and, worst of all, disappointment.

"I thought about it, that's all." Greg shrugged tried to hide that all he really wanted to do was take back those words and assure Mycroft that he cared about him and that he had not an inkling of doubt that the brilliant plan would work.

"Of course, I'm going to help you but it won't change a thing. Sherlock will be sent to his death." Greg said those words in his best 'arsehole-voice' and he saw that they had the desired effect.

"Then there is no reason to continue this conversation." Mycroft fixed a point in front of his feet, no longer able to look at him. "I have to accept your help because on this short notice I won't find a replacement."

Mycroft turned to go but stopped before he left the kitchen. "You may leave the key to my house with the desk officer at New Scotland Yard. My assistant will pick it up later. Good day, Inspector."

Ten minutes later Greg heard the door front door close.

Greg hadn't thought he could feel this awful. He knew it had been necessary to hurt Mycroft but it took all his willpower not to run after him and apologise. He rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands. There was only one thing he could do while he waited for the signal to come in on the mobile Mycroft had provided for this mission. Greg went to Mycroft's desk, pulled out a piece of paper and began to write, hoping Mycroft would read the letter instead of throwing it away unread.

oOo

Sherlock stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. It had rained a little this morning and the air was still fresh. It was warmer than usually in January. Using a little imagination he could almost smell spring, although the season was still far away.

Until the last moment he had hoped Mycroft would have been able to prevent his departure but when he had seen his brother this morning he had known immediately that he hadn't managed to pull the proverbial rabbit out of the hat. The sadness surrounding him had surprised Sherlock. Although he knew Mycroft cared about him after all, seeing him like this had been as much a surprise as it had been painful.

Sherlock wasn't a man who cried over spilled milk but even he had a few regrets about missed chances when he had jumped from St Bart's roof two years ago. Back then he had wished he had told John about his feelings and maybe a couple of apologies to his friends Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would have been in order.

Deciding he didn't want to make the same mistake again, Sherlock had hugged Mycroft before they had climbed into the limousine that had waited in the prison's sub-basement and parking garage. For a few seconds both brothers had clung to each other like they hadn't in the past 25 years, when a young Mycroft had loved, cared for and comforted his even younger brother.

Glancing sideways Sherlock could see that Mycroft had his familiar mask in place, only his eyes, that looked two shades darker than usual, gave away his pain.

Both brothers and an agent got out of the limousine, which left immediately to pick up John and Mary. When Sherlock and the agent went inside the plane to store the small bag Sherlock had been allowed to bring, Mycroft slipped a hand into his pocket and sent the prepared message. Now he could only hope that the horrible words Gregory had hurled at him this morning were wrong.

Greg had been sitting at Mycroft's laptop for what felt like two hours when the signal finally came.

_'Lucifer is go'_

Rubbing his sweaty palms against the legs of his trousers one more time, he got to work. To be on the safe side he had written down Mycroft's instructions, ready to burn them the moment his task was accomplished.

With a pounding heart, Greg watched the links being set up and Mycroft's computer taking over one system after the other. For a whole two minutes the screen produced lines of numerical codes, ending each with '_Lucifer __executed_'. That was, right until the moment when it was supposed to take over the computer of NSY's commissioner. A dot kept blinking and after a moment the message 're-routing' appeared. Greg felt all colour drain from his face. Re-routing? That couldn't be good. Mycroft had never mentioned the message 're-routing'.

Another set of numbers appeared in the next line and the computer proceeded until finally the message he had been waiting for appeared.

_'Lucifer complete'_.

Greg exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment before he jumped up. He burned his note in the fireplace, grabbed his jacket and ran outside. The cab he had ordered just pulled up. He gave an address, a couple of blocks away from his own home. Handing the cabby a ten pound note, he got out and walked to the pub where he had left his mobile the other day.

"Pint of Newcastle," he ordered, and handing the bartender money he retrieved his mobile. He parked himself at the counter and drowned most of the beer before he felt calm enough to concentrate on the football game on the view screen. Now all he could do was wait.

oOo

Sherlock hugged and kissed Mary and demanded another private moment with John before the plane would take him away. He looked into the tired eyes of his friend, of his love, and saw his own pain reflected there. John's face showed a bit of stubble while Sherlock had shaved with particular care, trying to give John his usual well-groomed appearance to remember.

They both looked at each other like last night hadn't happen. Their hands clasped behind their backs so they wouldn't be tempted to touch one another, John asked what would happen now. He too had hoped for a miracle. One more miracle. This time Mycroft should have been the one to provide it but apparently he had failed both Sherlock and John. Sherlock had run out of miracles.

Sherlock tried for a joke but his heart was heavy and he could barely hold back the tears that were fighting their way into his eyes.

Sherlock forced his right hand to extend in a gesture that initiated a handshake but nothing else. He saw John's Adam's apple bob up and down in his throat before John grabbed his hand. They shook hands and moments later Sherlock almost ran up the few stairs to get inside the plane.

The agent who sat on the other side of the plane had his eyes averted, giving Sherlock as much privacy as possible in the confined space. Sherlock watched the figures of John, Mary and his brother standing at the tarmac. Then the jet accelerated and lifted off. He craned his neck to look back, his eyes glued to the figure standing beside Mary, who was easily to make out with her red coat. He saw his brother getting into the car, probably getting to work or whatever it was he did these days. He hoped Mycroft would protect John like he had promised.

John held Mary's hand while he watched the jet getting smaller and disappearing in the clouds. He felt like his heart had been ripped apart when it had only mended after Sherlock's return. At least this time he had been given the chance to say goodbye and now he needed to concentrate, direct his affection at his wife and soon to be born baby. Sherlock a girl's name. Right. He shook his head. They had to talk about a name yet but not today.

Mycroft could have squealed with glee but first, second and third that was something he would never ever do and fourth he needed to act surprised. Well, after the doubt Gregory had managed to sow into his mind this morning he was surprised that their plan actually had worked. Mycroft got out of the car.

"But that's not possible," he spoke into his phone.

That got John and Mary's attention. Together they watched Moriarty's face blinking on the little screen in the car.

'Did you miss me?'

John and Mary just stared, while Mycroft listened to the caller and nodded. He hung up and called the agent who was on the plane with his brother.

Sherlock could hardly believe Mycroft's words. He couldn't be serious. Moriarty was back? But then, he didn't really care. He could return to London and foremost to John. The moment the plane had stopped, he opened the door and bolted down the few steps. Not caring what either Mary or Mycroft might think, he made a beeline for John and hugged him to his chest. John hugged back but eventually he produced a choking sound because Sherlock held him so tight he could hardly breath.

"You were right then," John said, when he felt able to talk again. "The game is never over."

Sherlock smiled. "I guess we need to check with Lestrade. I bet he is very much out of his depth already."

oOo

Lestrade wasn't out of his depth at all. Knowing he had to play the uninformed viewer, he let his jaw to drop in surprise when the message had come in. Then he had grabbed his phone and had run to fetch a cab. He had allowed himself a moment to imagine himself punching his fist in the air and shouting 'Yesss!' But he couldn't risk more than thinking it. One never knew who looked out of the window.

He knew there were no CCTV working in this area for Mycroft had disabled them the other day so no one could see Greg arrive at the pub when he did. And if somebody bothered to check his location for the time _Lucifer_ was activated on basis of his mobile, the phone had been in the pub since New Year's Eve.

oOo

For a minute John was utterly thrilled, and the smile that was plastered onto his face was only restricted by physical limitations, specifically his ears. Sherlock was back, most likely would stay and they even had a case. An honest to God fucking case that had written _danger_ all over it.

Then it occurred to him that he had to go home with Mary. He really didn't want to but he supposed he had to, didn't he? To his surprise though Mary smiled at him. It was a smile that held sadness but still it was a smile.

"I can see that you want to go hunting with Sherlock. Go ahead. If this Moriarty is somehow back, you two have to stop him."

John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Mary, trying to decide if he could really go with Sherlock.

"I promise he will be back at dinner-time," Sherlock said.

Mary nodded and John decided that it was safe to go. He hugged Mary and the couple whispered quietly for a moment while both Holmes' brothers had their noses buried in Mycroft's phone, listening to the first reports that came in.

Only when they heard Mary say, "Good bye, my Love!" both brother's heads snapped up and Mary found them looking at her.

She returned Sherlock's gaze, not sure about his brother. Her eyes were pleading. Sherlock only blinked his understanding and she relaxed visibly.

"Dinner-time," Sherlock repeated and when Mary had kissed John again, he and both Holmes brothers were swept away in a limousine that had just arrived.

oOo

Mary was taken home by the other limousine. No sooner had she closed the door, she had dug out the mobile she had taken with her.

"Yes?"

"He's back. I can be ready within the hour."

Mary hung up, went to the bedroom and began to prepare.

* * *

><p>I named the programm Mycroft used <em>Lucifer<em> for several reasons. First, _Lucifer_ has a nice ring and I can imagine it'd appeal to Mycroft, second it was named after Mark Gatiss' Lucifer Box novels.


	10. Chapter 10 - 1st January, Part 3

**1st January – Part 3**

When the cab dropped Greg Lestrade off at NSY, he was in for a shock. Only a couple of minutes earlier a whole team from MI5 had descended upon the building, searching the commissioner's office. Naturally the man was outraged, rightfully so, but MI5 presented evidence that the message which had been on every single view screen in the country, had been sent from his office. Greg hoped that this hadn't been Mycroft's idea of seeking revenge for the fight he had initiated this morning.

Together with his colleagues, who had been present when MI5 had arrived, Greg was ushered into a large conference room. They were told it was to prevent them from tempering with evidence. MI5 had actually left an armed guard at the door to the room, who looked forbidding enough that neither officer was even slightly tempted to try if he was serious about using his gun.

Since plenty of other Yarders were reacting to the video by coming in for duty, regardless of the first January being a holiday, the room was filling quickly.

Greg was almost ready to confess but fortunately before he did, the expert from MI5, who had analysed the commissioner's computer came in and told them, the initial signal had come from a server in Serbia and the commissioner's computer had been only used as a splitter. The whole college of New Scotland Yard, who had been under general suspicion, was cleared of all charges.

'Serbia,' Greg thought. 'Right!' He had no idea how Mycroft had managed that but right now he had other things to worry about. It had been quickly decided that he should be the one in charge for he had dealt with Moriarty before and MI5 had barely left the premises, when Sherlock with John Watson in his wake breezed in.

"What are you doing here?" Greg asked Sherlock. "I hope you are not on the run."

"England needs me," Sherlock replied in a tone of voice that got both John and Greg's eyes rolling.

A young officer came in and slammed a stack of folders onto the desk. "These are the sightings of Moriarty since the video was broadcasted," he told the DI.

Greg, knowing it was totally bollocks, for he and Mycroft had put the video together, was glad Sherlock took hold of the folder before he even had a chance to react.

"Welcome back, gentleman," he said to John and Sherlock. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to fetch the refreshments."

For once Greg really didn't mind surrendering his office to Sherlock to perform the role of the errand boy; fetching tea and some biscuits from the kitchen.

oOo

A couple of hours later John threw another folder with possible leads onto a quickly growing pile of paper. Greg had left with an officer neither John nor Sherlock knew, quizzing the most promising witnesses himself. A young constable had been ordered to remain at the side of Sherlock and John at all time. Not even the smallest piece of paper was to leave the room without authorisation. Considering Sherlock and Moriarty's history, the matter far too sensitive to leave any room for repute.

Naturally Mycroft knew Greg wasn't there, when he came to check on his brother. When he entered the office, John Watson waved a folder in the elder Holmes' face.

"This is rubbish, Mycroft. Are you certain it wasn't you who set this up?"

Mycroft had his mask in place and was about to reply, when Sherlock spoke up.

"Why should he? Can't you see his eyes going sore from the mere sight of me? I am an endless source of annoyance to him. Once he would have gotten over my demise, he could have stopped worrying constantly to live a long and happy life," Sherlock snapped.

For a split second Mycroft wondered why he had gone through all this trouble to save his brother but Sherlock wasn't finished.

"Although this morning my dear brother looked almost heartbroken. Mycroft couldn't even feign the beginning of an emotion if his very life depended on it, there must be another explanation."

Sherlock turned the feral grin he had directed at his brother during his last words into a real one for John. "Maybe Lestrade will come up with something, although I don't have much hope."

John harrumphed and checked the next entry on the list; both he and Sherlock ignored Mycroft who stood with a somewhat stunned expression rooted to the spot. Before long he blinked a few times and left without another word.

Craning his head to make sure Mycroft had truly left, John turned to Sherlock. "That was weird. Haven't seen him at a loss for words before."

Sherlock huffed. "Weird is his middle-name," he told John, before picking up another folder. "I wouldn't bother if I were you.

oOo

It was almost six o'clock when John stretched his aching back, pulled on his jacket and prepared to go home.

Sherlock knew that Mary wouldn't be there. He easily pretended to be totally engrossed by a report, barely acknowledging John's good-bye.

Not sooner than John had left, Sherlock decided he wanted a cup of tea. Since the constable still present in the office refused to be his lackey, the detective texted Lestrade that it was vital for him to come back. Sherlock went back to work but for once his message was ignored.

oOo

Greg had abandoned quizzing witnesses about the same time John left NSY, for he really wanted to talk to Mycroft. He had tried to call him several times without success and non of his texts had been answered either.

Certain the man would be in his office, Greg set out to pay him a visit. Arriving unannounced and uninvited at the doorsteps of Mycroft's lair, wasn't a good idea in the best of times.

Knowing the British government was most likely still royally pissed, complicated the exercise quite a bit. Greg was stubborn though. When there was only one guard at the entrance of the building, he decided to make a dash for Mycroft's office. He was tackled by two burly guards a few meters short of his destination. One guard manhandled him in a way that would have resulted in dislocating Greg's shoulder but apparently the man was stopped by an order that came through his ear plug. Greg hoped that was a good sign. But maybe Mycroft wanted the pleasure of killing him slowly and painfully all for himself.

The guards left him in front of Mycroft's office but the door remained closed. Greg knew Mycroft knew he was there. Knocking wouldn't do him any good. The door was soundproof.

He looked at a camera opposite the door. "Please, Mycroft. Open the door. I need to talk to you. Let me explain."

When nothing happened, Greg felt the exhaustion as well as sadness crashing down on him.

Again he looked at the camera. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. So sorry." His voice was barely more than a whisper.

With a sigh he combed his fingers through his hair and settled down for he long haul. Sitting on the ground, not caring that he got stares from the few people who walked along the corridor, he leaned against the door frame where he fell asleep a few minutes later.

Mycroft studied the sleeping form outside his office. A camera in the corridor provided a clear picture of Gregory's face. Mycroft was used to making decisions but right now he was at a loss what to do. He didn't trust easily and the words Gregory had flung at him this morning had disappointed him and hurt more deeply than he would let on. Immediately Mycroft had shied away from the feelings he had developed over the past month and most prominent during the past week for the Inspector.

Listening to Gregory's pleading voice left him more vulnerable than ever. When he had said he was sorry, Mycroft's fingers had even reached out to him, had touched the view-screen of his computer. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

On the way back to his office he had stopped at his house and found a letter Gregory had written. The initial impulse had been to throw it away but somehow he hadn't be able to. Instead he had taken the envelope, folded it and put into a pocket of his jacket. Now, as he moved, he heard the slight rustling of the paper. He pulled out the letter and placed it on his desk unopened.

Mycroft remembered Sherlock's words when he had met him and John at Gregory's office. John had implied that he thought Moriarty's return was a ruse and Mycroft was somehow involved but that he had shown up this morning with his heart full of doubts, hurting from disappointment, had convinced Sherlock to believe otherwise.

Sherlock had not lied when he had told John Mycroft was rubbish in feigning emotions. Could Gregory had come to the same conclusion and hurt him for that very purpose? Hurt him to make their plan work? There was really only one option. He had to read the letter. With a sigh he sat at his desk, opened the envelope and began to read.

oOo

John arrived at his house but found it dark and empty. He unlocked the door and switched on the light.

"Mary?"

He listened. The house was utterly silent. Could Mary have gone into labour suddenly and he hadn't been informed that she was in hospital? No, not likely. Maybe she was asleep, and hadn't heard him.

John walked swiftly through the house, calling again and again for his wife until he came to their bedroom. The door of the closet stood slightly open. John looked inside and couldn't believe his eyes. Most of Mary's clothes were gone. He looked around and now noticed a few other missing items; including the framed photo of their wedding. When his gaze fell onto the bed he saw a plain white envelope lying on his pillow. His name was written on the front in Mary's handwriting.

He licked his lips nervously before he picked up the envelope and opened it. It was a short letter but when he had read it, John had the urge to sit down. He re-read the letter. This was a joke, right? A tasteless one but certainly a joke. John felt himself beginning to hyperventilate. Not good. He closed his eyes, steadying his breath and then he called Sherlock.

"Mary has left." His voice sounded strangled.

"Do you want me to come?" Sherlock asked, already shrugging into his coat.

"Yes, please."

"I'll be there as soon as I can." When Sherlock ended the call he was already outside the building, flagging down a cab.

oOo

Mycroft carefully opened the door. Crouching down, he gently touched the sleeping man's shoulder.

"Gregory, wake up."

"Uhm? Myc?" Greg opened one eye and when he saw Mycroft, the corners of his mouth pulled up into a smile before he closed his eyes again and leaned is head against Mycroft's chest with a content sigh. The next second however Greg was wide awake, blinking rapidly and struggling to his feet. Mycroft reached out to help him.

"Relax, Gregory. Everything is okay."

Greg stopped his struggle. Rubbing his eyes he looked at Mycroft, searching his face for signs of anger or disappointment. He didn't find any of those emotions. Still...

"I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I really didn't want to hurt you but there was no other way."

Mycroft shushed him. "It's all right, Gregory. I understand. I read you letter."

He led Gregory inside the office and closed the door.

"It was John who implied today that the whole business concerning Moriarty was a ruse."

"He did? I thought all those sightings would prevent that." He frowned. "It is actually amazing how many people called."

"People see what they want to see," Mycroft agreed. "Anyway, Sherlock was certain I couldn't have anything to do with it because," he swallowed and looked anywhere but at Greg, "because I looked heartbroken when I picked him up." Licking his lips he slowly raised his gaze to look at his counterpart. "He thought it was because of his imminent departure when in fact the reason was you."

"I..." Greg didn't really know how to reply.

"I am still quite perplexed how rejected, how hurt I felt from what you said this morning."

Greg bit his lips when he noticed the pain Mycroft had felt earlier, flared up again and was reflected in his eyes. "I wish I could take back my words."

"They were necessary." Mycroft produced a resolute huff and took a step forward. "Furthermore, they could only hurt because," he swallowed, "because I care for you very much."

He shook his head slightly. "I'm not good at this," he confessed. "Gregory, I want to be your friend but I'd very much like to be more than that."

'Good Lord,' Mycroft thought. Not good had been quite an understatement. That had sounded bloody awful and I he wouldn't be surprised if Gregory turned around this very moment to leave.

Greg was baffled for a moment but he certainly felt no urge to walk away. He knew how much this statement, this declaration had cost Mycroft but had he really said, really meant, what he thought he had?

Greg stretched out his hand and touched Mycroft's shoulder. "I'd like that very much," he said before he pulled Mycroft into a hug. It took a moment before Mycroft returned the gesture.

When they had hugged before, there still had been some distance between their bodies. Now they pressed tightly against each other and their face were buried in each other's neck.

Eventually Mycroft pulled back and stroke with his fingers over Greg's forehead. "And there I was, believing I am the smart one when one of the most vital details of our plan got worked out in here." He tapped against Greg's forehead with his index finger.

That had been undoubtedly the highest compliment that had ever been bestowed on Greg and the man blushed a deep scarlet. But moments later the devil twinkled in his brown eyes. "Can I get that in writing?"

They laughed and the rest of the tension finally eased away.

"Come on," Greg said, squeezing Mycroft's biceps, "let's get out of here. I'll treat you dinner and who knows what else this evening has in store."

oOo

When Mary had said 'Good bye, my love' Sherlock and Mycroft had known she would leave. The reason though had been a mystery so far. John had opened the door for Sherlock and now they sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea; Mary's letter lying between them.

Mary had explained in it that the baby wasn't John's. Their daughter was part of a breeding program. The parents were chosen with care. Only the brightest, fittest, healthiest were chosen for the best results. Their daughter would grow up in an environment where she would receive the best care and education. Mary would be there so John didn't need to worry the little girl wasn't loved.

"Who would breed humans?" John asked, when he was certain Sherlock had finished reading.

The detective shook his head. "I have no idea. But remember Blue Bell? Who would experiment on a rabbit to make it glow in the dark?"

"You think Mary is in Baskerville?" John was half out of his seat before Sherlock pushed him back down.

"No. I'm quite certain she already left England."

oOo

Sherlock was right, of course. At this very moment Mary sat in a private jet that was high above the Atlantic. The dark-haired man who sat beside her, just had finished his dinner and now swirled a glass of expensive brandy, warming the alcohol.

"Believe me, it is better this way. You can give birth in our hospital. Travelling with a new born would have meant stress for you as well as the baby.

"Don't pretend to care for either me or my daughter's well-being?" Mary snapped.

"Touchy today, aren't we?" The man laughed. "Well, that's quite all right. Circumstances considered. Anyway – have you decided on a name?"

Mary just glared at him, so the man got up and left her alone.

"Johanna," Mary whispered, covering her belly with both hands protectively. "I'm going to call you Johanna."

* * *

><p>For a moment I was seriously tempted to put another woman on board of the plane, pregnant with a boy, her last name being Noonian Singh :-)<p>

And now only the Epilogue is left, the events taking place about a month later.


	11. Chapter 11 - Epilogue

**Well this is it, the Epilogue and the end of this story. Thank you all for staying with me for the time it took to publish this fic. Sorry, if you expected something longer or different.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock had brought John straight back home to Baker Street. After the initial shock wore off, his friend had been so very upset, he hardly registered when Sherlock undressed him. The detective had helped John into his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt and led him to his bed. John was tucked in before Sherlock quickly changed into his own pyjamas and joined him. He was so very busy caring for John, holding him close and comforting the upset man, that only when Sherlock woke up the following morning he registered his own relief upon sleeping in his own bed again.<p>

They went back to John and Mary's house to dissolve the household bit by bit. The fresh scars John had received would take longer to heal properly but a man who loved him with all his heart was by his side and helped him through.

oOo

As promised, Greg had bought Mycroft dinner but the need for talk had been greater than their need for food. Much had been on both of their minds that had to be acknowledged.

It had been well past midnight when Mycroft walked Gregory to the door of his flat. There the DI had crowded him against the door and kissed him so thoroughly, Mycroft had feared the intense pleasure would short-circuit his brain and fuse every single nerve in his body. The lips that had assaulted his mouth were impossibly soft and the inquisitive tongue, which invaded his mouth moments later, was doing sinful things to his own.

These were grown men but it hadn't stopped them from snogging like teenagers at the doorstep.

The embarrassment Mycroft had felt, when he had begun trembling with passion, had been eased by Gregory's gentle voice. He had understood that those kisses had already been close to over-whelming for Mycroft, that it had triggered desires, which had been buried far too long. Strong hands had rubbed his back and had held Mycroft close until he had calmed down.

However, it hadn't stopped Greg from slapping his bottom affectionately as a token of farewell. Mycroft had made it to his car somehow. There he had sat for ten minutes, before he had felt secure enough to drive home, deciding this had indeed been a promising start of something new.

oOo

The hubbub Moriarty's unexpected appearance had caused, lasted three weeks. Greg Lestrade and his team had been released from all other tasks for the duration and the DI fought really hard to keep up the appearance that he was as dedicated to the case as everyone expected.

Understandably, he was almost thrilled when one day all files regarding Moriarty were to be stored, for a puzzling murder case had happened.

The next morning Greg had scarcely arrived and was still eating a sandwich and sipping his coffee, when Sherlock waltzed into his office, John hot on his heels.

"There's a murder and..." Sherlock's eyes suddenly focused on the set of keys on the inspector's desk. He snatched it up and inspected one particular key.

"Why do you have a key to my brother's house?"

Greg didn't even bother to ask, how in the world Sherlock would recognize Mycroft's key. Instead he gave his composed reply.

"Oh, pipe's broken in my flat. Your brother allows me to crash with him for a few days."

Sherlock studied his face for a moment before he replied.

"Did I give any indication that ninety-nine per cent of my brain cells suddenly died, Lestrade? My brother doesn't allow _anyone_ to crash with him nor does he give away the key to his house, ever."

"Really?" Greg burst out. He closed his eyes and mouth a split-second later.

'Oh, great job, Greg. Sounding like a starving stray dog that got offered food and shelter, was enormously convincing.'

Sherlock and John locked their eyes for a moment. The doctor was unsuccessfully fighting a grin, Sherlock didn't even bother to try. The consulting detective flung himself into a chair and reached for the file on the DI's desk.

"I'll get you some tea," Greg told his visitor, patting the pocket of his jacket gingerly.

"That's nice, thanks." John smiled warmly.

Sherlock only smirked. "Got your mobile to text Mycroft?"

Greg only closed his eyes in defeat.

Still, Sherlock never discovered who had saved him from impending doom.

oOo

Present day, somewhere across the Atlantic Ocean Mary's new-born baby girl is bathed and receives her first examination. Embryonic stem cells from her umbilical cord are taken to the clinic's laboratory for analysis.

Only a few hours later the head of the laboratory, Franco Montague, hurries to the large office in the main building of the clinic. A stern faced secretary waves him through.

Facing the head of the institution, the man is literally shaking with fear. "Sir, the results show the father of baby A27/14 is not the one which was chosen."

The man behind the desk carefully folds his manicured hands. "Who is the father?" The voice is calm but holds no warmth whatsoever.

"We don't know yet. It could be the mother's husband. But we need more data to confirm our suspicion."

"Alert our branch in London to acquire the necessary samples."

"Understood, Sir." Montague gets up.

"And, Montague..."

The man turns.

"We don't have use for the individual itself."

* * *

><p><em>Start the music for the closing credits now. :-)<br>_


End file.
